


Beneath the Surface

by ScintillatingVoid, Wardriven



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-The Dark Knight, Pre-The Dark Knight Rises, false identities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 72,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScintillatingVoid/pseuds/ScintillatingVoid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wardriven/pseuds/Wardriven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman is retired, Bruce Wayne is making headlines with Gotham's new clean energy project, and the Joker has been locked up in Arkham for years. </p>
<p>When Bruce discovers a man bearing the criminal's likeness in the middle of a publicity stunt, he can't help but be taken in. When this man becomes his own personal, guilty indulgence, Bruce decides it's better that no one's the wiser. When a certain someone using all the hallmarks of the Joker tries to lure the Batman out again, Bruce wonders if he should have reconsidered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bruce Wayne, billionaire, international playboy, regular face of Time magazine, needed to spice up his personal life. 

That was what he told Alfred, moving through one closet after another in search of that deep charcoal suit he never seemed to be able to find. His life was becoming not only too predictable, but veering dangerously close to too principled. Wayne's public work with the reactor core, even if it was more Wayne Enterprises and less Bruce Wayne, was going too well. Clean energy for the entire city of Gotham wasn't just a pipe dream any longer, thanks to his name, and the public knew it. 

It made Bruce nervous. 

"Wasn't that rather the point of your new project, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he handed Bruce another tie. The Wayne heir didn't miss his studiously raised brow. 

"Yes...it was." Bruce held the tie up to his neck and tossed it aside a second later, thumbing through a few more racks of jackets. "But for Gotham, not for me." 

"And did you not think that having your name attached to such a project would engender this kind of public appreciation?” 

Bruce gave Alfred a cold glance before his eyes turned back to the rack and - yes, that was the one he was looking for. He pulled it down and…couldn’t resist a small smile. He hadn't worn this suit in a while. 

Alfred continued on, unfazed at Bruce’s distraction. "Don't think I don't know what you're afraid of. You're afraid you'll become the new Harvey Dent." When Bruce glanced back to Alfred again, the man wore a certain grim, pointed smile. "But what you don't realize is that you don't need Bruce Wayne to be the character, the spectacle, you've made him out to be anymore. And what you even further don't realize, is that you don't want him to be." 

"Are you trying to tell me now that the Batman is gone, I can ‘be myself’?" Bruce asked, shedding his shirt in favor of another, a deep, rich black, and pulling the suit jacket over his shoulders. 

"Yes sir, I believe I am." 

Bruce did up his buttons, looked at himself in the mirror, decided against any tie at all, and grimaced. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet, Alfred." 

There was a brief pause between them as that sank in, but Bruce knew it wasn’t any worse than Alfred had been expecting, and so when the man held his shoes out to Bruce and said, "I'll have the car waiting in fifteen minutes," it didn't hold as much disappointment as one might expect. 

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce took his shoes and continued dressing as the butler left. 

No less than twenty minutes later, Bruce Wayne was making his first appearance at Whitehall, one of, if not _the_ , most prestigious gay clubs Gotham had to offer. 

As nightclubs went, Whitehall defied conventionalities. It still boasted the staples - multiple dance floors for different musical tastes, discreet booths and niches for private conversations, and well-kept back rooms for those who were truly impatient - but in many respects it functioned as a social club as well. A fully equipped restaurant graced one portion of the building for those who wanted more than alcohol, and there were several larger rooms for groups to converse.

Bruce's arrival caused a small commotion when he reached the door, more of a pleasant surprise than an item of true scandal. Bruce Wayne hadn't been as much of a public spotlight of late, aside from his charitable events and public works projects, but he was still assumed to be adventurous - although some speculated if he was slowing down as he aged. A number of the club patrons gave him a nod or a wave as he made his way inside, and more than a few appreciative glances; Bruce had met quite a few of them already at various parties and events, as social circles in Gotham were only _so_ big, but people who'd considered Bruce Wayne an impossible catch were now rapidly reassessing their chances to snag Gotham's richest and most eligible bachelor.

"Good god, look who just walked in the door." A voice sounded from Bruce's left and he turned his head to find a well-kept man in tailored, designer trousers and a high collared shirt walking up to greet him. Greg Ryson, from what Bruce could remember - an enthusiastic patron of the arts, and a man he had met several times before at fundraising events and educational charity dinners. "Bruce Wayne. Don't tell me you're here for a meeting in one of the conference rooms or with a business client. I think you'll end up breaking some hearts."

Bruce let his face light up with recognition, a wide, easy grin sliding over his mouth. "Greg! It's been too long!," he laughed and allowed the man to approach, accepting the palm on his back while he returned the gesture - not a hug, but a display of familiarity nonetheless. It was a familiar social dance. Bruce hadn't brought anyone, but he'd known he wouldn't need to in order to keep up appearances. He welcomed Greg's overture by responding in kind and now he would be a part of the man's circle for the evening. Unless he wandered elsewhere. 

"Breaking hearts? Who, me?" Bruce cocked his head and allowed a mischievous quirk to his smile. "I would never," he laughed, but the club music almost drowned out their conversation. It was a confirmation of Greg's inquiry and just ambiguous enough to hold onto some modesty. Not that Bruce was known for holding onto modesty very long into the night. "What are you drinking?" Bruce asked, quickly moving onto an excuse to maneuver farther into the club. 

"Balvenie Portwood. Can't let the masses think I'm an uncultured boor, now can I?" Greg laughed off his own comment. "I'm afraid I must be getting up in years, the mixed drinks the younger crowd go for don't hold my fancy. But please, if you'll let me, first round is on me."

Greg gestured towards the nearest bar and, when Bruce showed an inclination to take him up on the offer, led him further into the club. The bar had been strategically placed for people watching, halfway between one dance floor and a private seating area for socialization. The bartender didn't show much reaction when Greg showed up with his guest, other than to give Greg a friendly smile that said the man was a regular. "Will you be wanting the usual?"

"And whatever my friend here cares to try." Greg leaned against the counter and watched the hustle and clink of classes, but his attention was still mostly on Bruce. "Not to be too much of a snoop, but I don't tend to see too many business meetings here these days. Is it safe to assume that, not having found a fish that's caught your fancy so far, you're trying a different pool altogether?"

"Aha, is that really so out of the question?" Bruce asked. "And I'll have a Long Island," he added to the bartender and grinned at Greg's raised brow. Both the blase attitude and the drink were slightly suspect.  
"What? I hear this place throws a good party every once in a while. I'd just like to see what I'm missing out on." 

With his back to the bar, elbows up and leaning casually with that easy smile on his face, Bruce knew he was catching glances. The perfect image of a man there to have a good time, even if Greg was still trying to puzzle him out. "I'll remind you I've never said otherwise," Bruce added just to make things a little clearer as the bartender slid his drink across the surface. His companion just raised his brows when Bruce, before even taking a sip, shouted louder above the music. "So unless you have a reason to keep me over here to yourself," he widened his grin making no secret the suggestive nature of his comment, "introduce me to your friends." 

"Hey now, don't tempt me. I'm a generous soul, but you might be testing just how far that stretches." Greg still looked a bit incredulous, but when Bruce seemed to be earnest, he chuckled and jerked his chin towards one of the tables. "Grab your drink and let's hightail it over here so we can talk. If I start introducing you to _everyone_ , you'll be mobbed for the rest of the night."

Greg waited for Bruce to start following him, then resettled them at a table just far enough from the music that they could talk more comfortably. "There, better now. As I was saying, if you actually want to have some fun instead of getting stuck in a corner for the rest of the night, and not in the pleasant sort of way, it'd be better for you to pick _which_ friends I'm going to introduce you to."

Greg shifted, a little close for comfort, and started pointing out groups of people. "Over there's Jim, Devin, and Tom. They're a bit more serious, like a good game of cards. Jim's in real estate, Devin and Tom are both lawyers. Mike's the brunet over there - might want to skip him. He just broke up with his SO not too long ago, and actors get a touch melodramatic and impulsive. Steve's the blond over to the left, there. He's in the fashion industry, higher levels - not the actual designing, but making sure the books line up, studios are reserved on time, all the details to keep the wheels running. Same with Kevin, next to him. I don't know who the other blond with them is, someone new."

"New blood? Do you know everyone in this club?" Bruce teased and got right down to it, folding his arms and leaning over the table, leering at the crowds, not making any effort to hide it. "Hmm." None of the men were unattractive, but Bruce was already leaning away from getting involved with any of Greg's close friends, not this early in the game. That might be something he'd do when he wanted to end it. Bruce licked his lower lip thoughtfully as he watched the two designers and their new acquaintance. "Not too hard on the eyes." Though it was hard to tell at this distance, Bruce had caught a glimpse of him as he turned with the two others. The way his eyes raked over the crowd in such a sweeping glance made Bruce suspect he was subtly doing the very same thing Bruce and Greg were, but then the man's head was turned and his hair was in his face. "Yep, let's go." Bruce stood, taking a long, fake pull on his straw and waggling his eyebrows at Greg. 

"Fashion dandies, eh?" Greg laughed and tossed back the last of his drink, leaving the empty glass at the table. "And no, I don't know everyone, but I'm here often enough to know quite a few people. Here more often than I should admit to."

Greg walked a few strides ahead of Bruce, blocking the view as he tried to catch his friends' attention. "Hey, Kevin! Steve! I've got a friend here who wants to meet you both." Greg stepped out of the way as all three men turned to regard Bruce. "Gentlemen, Bruce Wayne. Bruce, this here's Steve Kaplan, and this is Kevin Bakal. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting their friend here, Mr...?"

"René. René Boucher." The blond with slightly longer, tied-back hair turned to regard Bruce and Greg curiously. A pleased glint entered his eyes as he smiled and extended one hand towards Bruce. 

Bruce took it without hesitation, leaning with the gesture. "René? French, right?" Bruce asked as though he couldn't quite place it. The man didn't have the accent, and Bruce was talking just to talk, but something struck him when he looked into this man's face. Their hands gripped and it was strong. Firm. Nothing shy about it, even though the two other two Greg introduced were now eyeing him up and down, making a small uproar over an introduction with Bruce Wayne. René was attractive, there was no question there. If he was interested, he'd be perfect for the minor scandal Bruce had in mind when he'd come here, but that wasn't what gave Bruce pause when he shook the man's hand, gripping a moment too long before they released and he moved to shake hands with the others, making more personal introductions than Greg had given them. 

"Yeah, these two assholes were just giving me a hard time of it." René rapped on Steve's arm playfully with the back of his knuckles, but it was hard enough that the man winced and drew a crooked smile from René. "We're supposed to be the top of the industry. Tough luck being, there's a lot of _industry_ to go around. You can have a solid portfolio and get good, steady work for years and never get big-time recognition."

Kevin laughed and held Bruce's hand a bit too long when his turn for a handshake came around. Definitely flirtatious. "Excuses, excuses. René just came over from across the pond to see if pickings were better over here. He just does design. Steve and I are both in planning."

" _Just_ design." René gave Kevin a sharp, angry glance. "Should I describe your career as _just_ paper pushing and number crunching?"

"Now see, that attitude might be why we've never heard of you."

"Ah," Bruce cut in with a somewhat ostentatious gesture, "Give the man a break. It's tough out there. Take me for example. I sit around snoozing through board meetings all day and still they put me in charge. Now, that said, there are about fifty guys waiting in line behind me for me to get my ass out of the chair so they can have a shot at making the company some money. Everybody's got road blocks." He laughed while Greg rolled his eyes at the immodest pretense at modesty, but Bruce ignored him, already fixing René in his sights. A curl of a smile appeared at Bruce’s lips and he gestured with his drink in one hand. "You just need the right friends." 

"Clearly I've had the wrong ones thus far," René drawled, but his crooked smile made a reappearance. It transformed the man's face slightly, somehow equally welcoming and vaguely sinister in a way Bruce couldn't quite pinpoint for a moment.

René turned slightly, and with the change of lighting Bruce finally realized just why he was unsettled. The shape of the designer's face and the set of his nose, particularly when combined with a smile, was reminiscent of a man Bruce had shut away behind asylum walls five years ago. 

René frowned slightly and repeated himself when it was apparent Bruce had stopped listening. "I said, I was curious whether you wanted to have a drink together in pursue of _amitié_ , but now I'm wondering if you've had too much already. A lightweight, or something else on your mind?"

Bruce made sure his face was perfectly back in place. "Too much isn't nearly enough." He couldn't flat out lie since Greg was right there and knew exactly how much he'd drank that night, or thought he did, but Greg didn't need to be there for long. "And I might just take you up on that. You look like you could use another. On me." Bruce tossed his head back toward the bar and pulled the man away from his friends. His eyes lingered, but not for the reasons they suspected now. 

René was...well, his skin was flawless. That is, in terms of there being no horrifically deep, recognizable scars across his cheeks, scraggly hair, or drying paint caked to his face. It was such an unusual resemblance that Bruce couldn't stop the scrutiny, but it was only that smile. While the angles of his face were similar, he looked nothing like the Joker when he glanced at Bruce now.

"Well, I'm not going to turn you down." René returned Bruce's scrutiny with interest and followed after him. Kevin and Steve watched them go, and Greg was already thumping Kevin on the shoulder to console him for being overlooked.

Bruce and René wound their way through the room and back towards the bar. The music was too loud to be able to talk easily, and so their time was spent examining one another, gauging intent. It was a game Bruce had played many times before; having an opponent of the same gender made little difference. They settled at the bar and René shifted a little too close. Anywhere else, such overt interest might have been unusual, but a glance around reaffirmed that such things were relatively normal here, with people pairing up quickly if they were looking for casual flings. "Dare I ask what got me the nod of approval?"

Bruce laughed and motioned for the bartender, ordering another drink with a wave of his hand and avoiding eye contact with René. "Your smile." Bruce turned and used the honesty of it to warm his voice. It wasn't the right kind of honesty, but it gave Bruce something to work with. And now he was looking at René and René was looking back - looking him up and down in fact, head tilted just so with the slightest gleam in his eye that Bruce had to admit really did make him attractive, considering Bruce just as acutely.

"That's a relief. I was concerned you were going to say something about _exotic conquests_." René rolled his eyes. "It's no longer flattering when you get hit on purely because people are hoping for a fun accent in bed, or because they've not had you before."

The bartender returned, pushing drinks at the two of them. René blinked at the Long Island he was offered, shrugged and picked it up. He took a sip and peered over the rim of his glass in a strangely calculating way. When the glass lowered, his crooked smile was back. "I hope you're not banking on my ignorance, either. I might not be a native of Gotham, but it doesn't take long to hear something about the major names in the city, yours included. The media photos don't really do you justice."

"Oh," Bruce adopted a transparently false, wounded attitude. "Does that mean my chances with you just went down or up? I think I've got whiplash." He took a feigned sip of his new drink, having lost the old one to an empty table on their way to the bar. Bruce was used to operating this way now. Technically, he could stop, but he hadn't really found he was ready to let himself go yet. "But really, I'm glad you know who I am. But I'll warn you, if you do get involved with me, you might have the paparazzi tailing you for a few days." 

"Ah, photographers. The most obnoxious of breeds." René chuckled. "I'm not too worried about that, and your chances haven't gone down. You're a man who everyone knows, but nobody _really_ knows all that well. I can see how that would be off-putting to some people, but I appreciate a good mystery, and all that tells me is that you're looking for the right one and not wasting your time when you're missed the mark. I can respect that." René's smirk was a bit too amused, as if he was savoring a private joke with himself. 

Bruce smiled and took another sip of his drink. That wasn't really it at all. Bruce _wasn't_ looking. The near constant ache of Rachel may have left him, but he wasn't interested in moving on. Still, whatever René was thinking, Bruce would let him enjoy it. "Maybe something like that," Bruce conceded. "And what is it you're looking for?" He let himself relax a little, leaning into the bar, letting himself enjoy looking at this man. Because it was enjoyable. There was a kind of humor behind René's eyes that had yet to fade. "I wasn't kidding you know. If my pals like your work, you'll be set." 

"I'm looking for a little _je ne sais pas_. I have very specific tastes. I lost my last partner a few years ago, unfortunately. I figured it was time to come out of hiding, try something new. Even if there's always going to be a hole there where he's missing." René rolled his eyes again and toyed with his drink. "And I'm certain this is just the sort of morbid conversation to pique your interest. I'm really just trying to get back on my feet and find my way again, now that I've been forced onto a new path. I'm just hoping it's somewhere sufficiently exciting."

Bruce could feel his smile soften a little at that. He felt a little guilty now. There was no question he was using René, and he knew he was going to feel bad for that if this man did become attached to him. "Well. You won't find anything but exciting around here." Bruce could at least promise him that. He levelled his gaze and decided to be honest. He wasn't sure why _he_ wasn't backing down yet. He was about to go after a man who'd just reminded him of the Joker. He should be turning around and finding someone else for the latest farce in a long history of Bruce Wayne's public life, not pursuing his own personal sort of 'morbid curiosity', as René had put it. And yet, he didn't want to. For the first time in a long time, his interest wasn't completely feigned. He leaned into René's space, gently taking the glass out of his hand and setting it down on the bar while Bruce held his gaze. "Come back with me. If I'm not what you're looking for, you can walk away and you'll have nothing to regret." 

René hesitated, his easy demeanor unravelling a bit around the edges as he sized Bruce up one last time and weighed his options. After a few moments, he gave a slow nod. "That's a promise I can live with. Even if it does come with a small flock of paparazzi." René straightened and jammed his hands into his pockets, waiting for Bruce to lead the way to the door.

Bruce turned and missed the flick of a tongue testing the corner of René's mouth, and the way the man's eyes glinted for a moment with gleeful, ill intent. When he turned to glance back at his chosen companion for the night, René was all smiles, and suggestive ones at that. "There are certain advantages to walking behind you."

"You don't say," Bruce turned just as they reached the door. He caught sight of Greg in the distance, brows raised, head shaking, but waving his goodbyes. Bruce had barely stayed an hour and was already living up to his reputation. He wrapped one arm around René's waist and fished out his phone with the other. "Stay close," Bruce warned with a grin that was more mischief than apology. His thumb swept over the screen with a practiced motion and not a moment later he was slipping it into his jacket again as they exited onto the street. Only to be engulfed in white flashes. Dozens of them. Bruce shot them a smile, but ducked away just as quickly, tugging René along with him as he spotted the valet with his Ferrari just down the curb. 

"Fuck, you weren't kidding about the paps." René kept his smile, but it was strained - the sort adopted by people who weren't used to having their pictures constantly taken and didn't know how to make it appear genuine. He let Bruce lead him down the sidewalk and into the Ferrari, keeping his eyes ahead and ignoring the small mob behind them. René slid down in his seat as soon as he was inside the car. "I'm not deterred, mind, but I'm a bit more used to being on the opposite side of the cameras."

"Kinky." Bruce gave a small laugh as he shifted the car in gear and revved the engine, clearing a small path for them to slink out onto the street. And slink the car did. He knew exactly the kind of image they'd make on the morning's papers, and that was the goal of all this. Technically, he could let René go now. He could take him halfway to the penthouse and have any number of minor catastrophes from Wayne Enterprises blowing up his phone as a ruse. He could even have Alfred intercept them on the way up. He'd done all that with his fair share of women before and the public had yet to catch on. It would be so easy, but as Bruce glanced to the man next to him, catching him in a rare moment his eyes weren't on Bruce - instead glancing up the street with that strange, tricky look on his face - Bruce knew he wouldn't be doing any of those things. 

"You have a problem with kinky?" René grinned when Bruce did a double-take, looking positively wicked. "I did warn you that I have very particular tastes. I hadn't thought that was going to be a problem with someone of your reputation."

The blond man watched him, still slouched in the passenger seat in a way that caused an itch in the back of Bruce's mind. He must have spotted something in Bruce's face, as his expression suddenly turned a bit more sober. "Oh. First time playing for the other team, I take it. Am I a way to test out a personal theory, or is this a blind experiment to see if your tastes are wider than you thought?"

Bruce laughed and shook his head, trying to clear it in a not way that wasn't completely feigned. "Maybe an experiment that's turning into a personal theory?" Bruce pressed the gas a little harder, moving deftly around one corner and the next, Wayne tower now only blocks away. "Keep in mind, the media doesn't know everything about me. I still have a few secrets left." Bruce shot his companion a glance and saw that he was back under the scrutiny of light brown eyes, so he quickly looked away. 

René's eyes lit up, his wary disappointment fading away with Bruce's slight reassurance and enticing tease. "More to Bruce Wayne than meets the eye, eh? Anything I should be wary of? Or is that supposed to be a surprise, as well?" The man glanced out at the city passing by outside the windows every so often, but the bulk of his attention was fixated on Bruce. He had a good idea of where they were going. "Most of what you might tell me would probably be a surprise anyways. I haven't been here nearly long enough to know everything the media supposedly does."

"Good then. A few extra surprises never hurt anybody." Bruce pulled into the underground structure and for a moment they were bathed in darkness. René's face vanished and the only illumination ahead of them was provided by the Ferrari's headlights. Bruce caught a glimpse of him washed in shadow and something at the back of his mind sparked again, but then it was gone. Not a minute later a new valet was jogging up to them and Bruce had to reorient himself again. He killed the engine but made the valet wait. "Never a moment alone," Bruce's words teased but his eyes raked over René, something so familiar about him yet set in a completely unfamiliar face. He had to... He was leaning over the stick shift before he knew what he was doing, pulling the other man up with him, following his eyes for a moment, gauging his interest, his welcome, before Bruce met his mouth. 

René didn't seem to mind their witness. He'd leaned in without hesitation, lips warm, surprisingly soft, and definitely interested. The man wasn't as shy as many of the girls Bruce had kissed in the past, and he certainly wasn't intimidated. Not by Bruce's reputation, social standing, or wealth. 

Bruce wasn't used to a partner that fought for control. René pressed back and gave as good as he got, ending with a warning hint of teeth against Bruce's lower lip when he tried to deepen the kiss. "Ah, none of that. Despite my nationality, I don't care for that kind of kissing," René laughed quietly. Again, something about the sound was almost familiar, but it was too soft to place it.

Bruce's eyes flashed. Whatever it was, it was heating his blood. "Upstairs. Now." When he caught a wicked leer in return, Bruce pulled himself out of the car and tossed his keys to the flustered valet without another glance. René's golden head popped up from the other side and Bruce was around the car and up against his side in no time. His hand found a home against the small of René's back as he led the way to the lobby and then the elevator, breezing through pleasantries with the doorman. 

René waited just until the elevator doors closed, then turned on Bruce. A wicked smile had returned to his face, and despite his shorter height, he was doing his best to back Bruce up against the elevator wall, seemingly intent on turning the tables and seducing the famous playboy. René's hands ran up his sides before sliding back down to Bruce's waist. "I'll try to remember to take it easy on you, it being your first and all."

"Not too easy I hope." Bruce's jacket parted under René's hands as they slid up his chest, and it fell to the floor. As soon as it hit, Bruce was flipping them even though René's stance was surprisingly solid. He did just warn Bruce, after all, so Bruce took it as a challenge, putting his weight into the movement and backing the shorter man up against the other side of the elevator with a chuckle in his throat before their mouths met again. Bruce kept it as chaste as he could, but the act was quickly fading. His blood pumped faster as brown eyes stared up at him from under soft brows. Bruce diverted and caught René's ear when he fought the kiss again. "And who said anything about this being my first time?" Bruce whispered. 

René tsked. "And here I thought I was going to be a rite of passage. Who was the lucky man I now have to measure up to, hmm? Probably some unreasonably high standard, given how I've heard you're familiar with all the local models." He sounded vaguely disappointed, but when Bruce glanced down at an arched line of neck, he could see René's pulse was just as rapid as his own. "Hopefully I have enough surprises up my sleeve to make a favorable comparison."

"You're doing well so far." Bruce licked against his ear the moment the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He took hold of René's wrists and pulled the man back with him. The lights came on in the foyer at their footsteps, illuminating the great entrance to Bruce's penthouse suite. Marble floor, columns that rose into the high ceiling above - this and the next room, all the way to the terrace were where Bruce entertained parties of the elite, but while it was empty it remained one giant, cavernous space. 

Bruce led René the opposite direction, down another marble hall, intimately lit, and up a great staircase, kissing and fumbling with clothing as they went. Bruce was sure the other man was about to complain that for all his luxury, they still couldn't get to the bedroom any faster, when its doors hit Bruce's back. 

René barely glanced around when they had walked through all the penthouse finery. His gaze remained fixed on Bruce, a small, secretive smile gracing his mouth whenever he wasn't being kissed. He took more interest in their surroundings once Bruce drew him through the bedroom doorway.

The bedroom was a bit more enclosed, sectioned off from the open air spaces of the rest of the suite, but still had the illusion of open space. Windows lined the walls around the extra-large bed - tinted to allow for privacy. René turned, clever eyes darting around the room to take in all the details as Bruce tugged him towards the bed. Bruce let go of his hands, and René was momentarily distracted enough that he almost missed one detail that rooted him to the floor.

Bruce had glanced down to take care of the last few remaining buttons on his dress shirt and shrug it off. It only took a matter of a few seconds, but when he glanced back up, René no longer looked confident. On the contrary, his tanned skin seemed a little paler. His lips were slightly parted in breathless shock, light brown eyes riveted on the scars criss-crossing Bruce's skin.

Bruce almost laughed. He hadn't gotten that strong of a reaction in some time. "Spelunking," he clarified. "And a bit of...mixed martial arts." He took a step closer, still confident he hadn't lost René's interest. This had happened before. "And a bit more of not being very good at those arts, if I'm honest." But René's eyes fixed on one in particular. His right abdomen, just inside the flank. It had been deep as far as most of Bruce's scars went, about an inch wide when it happened. Only the mesh plating had saved him from the knife point hidden away in the Joker's shoe. In that very hall just one floor down. Bruce stood as close as he could and stopped, René's palm hovering over the mark. The other man looked like he'd been frozen in time. 

René's hand finally made contact with Bruce's skin. The man visibly shivered. When he glanced up at Bruce's face again, he was more serious than Bruce had seen him for the rest of the night.

The solemnity didn't last long. René's gaze rapidly darkened, turning hot and predatory, his focus suddenly back and sharper than ever. He started walking forward, backing Bruce up until the man's legs hit the edge of the bed, resisting Bruce's every attempt to turn them back around. "Adventurous. That's good. And a stroke of luck for me, really. I've got a collection of my own."

René's hands rapidly worked on the buttons of his own shirt, stripping the garment off, and sure enough: lines and patches were stark against the rest of his tanned skin. René grinned. "Never been spelunking, but I used to do a fair bit of hunting until I was in one too many accidents. Others... well. Either when I was stuck being a starving artist in the poorer sides of town, or the result of some of my particular tastes."

Bruce's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected that. True, René had given off a somewhat slightly...tougher air than his colleagues at the club, but this told a somewhat different tale. These weren't the neat, intricate markings of the BDSM crowd either. When René said he had tastes, Bruce was now inclined to take him more seriously. 

Bruce reached out and touched one just above René’s hip, rubbing his thumb along its jagged edge. His other hand found another at René's side and together they slid upward as Bruce recorded them to memory. Something had changed. Something so subtle he couldn't put his finger on it. He could feel René's blood pulsing twice as fast now, and Bruce decided he liked it. He looked up and their eyes met. 

For a moment everything froze, and then Bruce was pulling René down as he sank back against the bed. 

René was reluctant to let Bruce retain control for long. A brief struggle ensued, the slighter man trying to pin Bruce's wrists down before he gave that particular action up as futile. His fingernails dragged down Bruce's skin instead, his hand turning every now and again so that he could trace one of Bruce's scars. René's mouth followed. He seemed inordinately pleased at the goosebumps his tongue and teeth summoned. 

René glanced up once he reached the scar low on Bruce's abdomen. From that angle, it was difficult for Bruce to see much more than his eyes and nose, and a tangle of blond hair still held back in a short ponytail. "...you're going to have to be explicit about just how far you're wanting to explore your _personal theory_. Otherwise I'm going to roll with some assumptions." One of René's hands slid lower and palmed Bruce through his trousers. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly with the confirmation; Bruce was still _very_ interested.

Bruce's mouth dropped open and he let himself gasp. The act was completely gone. All he had left to do was remind himself to be careful, even though René was pushing for the opposite. "At this point, I think you're free to make whatever assumptions you want. _Except_ ," Bruce wrapped his legs around René's middle and in one fluid twist, the man was laid out underneath him. "I like the view from up here better." Bruce let his voice deepen and his body spread out along the shorter man's. He could feel already that he wasn't alone in his interest, as he caught René's gasp and the light tremble of his body beneath him. 

The switch in positions didn't seem to deter René. He gave Bruce a calculating, ravenous look. His breath left him in a rush, and his tongue swiped across his lips. "Fair enough. I can top from the bottom." He didn't pause to wait for Bruce's reply to his declaration; his fingers went to the fastenings of Bruce's trousers. _Impatient_. "I suppose it's not too much of a stretch to assume someone with your reputation keeps supplies on hand."

Bruce laughed. He lifted his hips to maneuver out of his pants, shoved down his waist and kicked off when they got to his ankles. He bent over René and fished out a small bottle and pack of condoms from an unassuming drawer at the side of the bed. "Always come prepared." Bruce winked, but his hands were more intent on exploring René's body. He hadn't found nearly all the scars yet, and after every one they amazed him just a little more. He found himself working at the other man's belt just as eagerly, brushing over the growing bulge beneath it as he worked and laughing into the kiss he used to push René back down onto the bed. He pulled the other man's pants free and then his shorts before Bruce lost his own. Before René could get comfortable enough to regain the upper hand, Bruce slid down his body, catching his eyes with a wicked grin before he found his target. 

René's eyes widened in surprise, breathless and without a witty response the moment Bruce moved lower. And lower, stopping just short of what René was imagining. Bruce's fingers had wrapped around the base of his cock, his mouth close enough that René could feel his breath across sensitive skin. René grew visibly and tangibly harder in response to the teasing, a half-crazed light entering his gaze. He tried to buck his hips, but Bruce just grinned and moved back enough to deny him contact. René practically growled and grabbed a handful of dark hair.. "Don't try my patience. I don't do this for just _anyone_."

Something about that sound went straight to Bruce's cock. The grip at the back of his head bordered on painful, but Bruce didn't care. If he'd been someone else, he might have, and a little voice at the back of his mind tried to remind him of this, but he didn't care about that either. "Then I'll consider myself privileged," Bruce breathed, his smirk widening as he drank in the gleam of René's eyes. They were darker in the low light, but Bruce could see everything he needed to. Wanted to. With that, he let his tongue swipe across the head, tasting, testing - it had been a long time since he'd done this - and felt René give a sharp intake of breath before Bruce swallowed him down. 

René make a choked sound. He'd implied that he had quite a bit of experience, along with the scars to prove it, but there was something odd in the way he was watching Bruce. Almost like this was a new experience for him, full of awe and lust and some darker hunger. René's hand stayed laced through Bruce's hair, and his arm was tense, but he made no move to pull Bruce down. René refused to break eye contact, enraptured with the sight, and his tongue darted out again to wet his lips.

Bruce blinked, rhythm thrown. Half his body told him to freeze, the other half...the other half he did not consider, just like he did not consider the way he _felt_ his cock harden. Such an eerily familiar tic. It made his blood boil hot and freeze at the very same time until Bruce couldn't decide what it meant. He lifted off. René jerked, fast, but Bruce was also fast and he had the advantage of position. They were face to face now, Bruce pinning the other man to the bed, hands grappling for René's wrists as Bruce stared into him, trying hard to see what he'd just seen. René was _so different_ , Bruce had to have imagined it, but it all still seemed so familiar, just when he'd thought the vision had passed. 

René's eyes narrowed. He jerked against the sudden hold on his wrists, but in vain - the angle and the differences in body weight and upper arm strength weren't in his favor. His head tilted in confusion, shifting the place of light across his face. A face that was flawless, without a hint of the scars that marked the rest of his body, much less any ragged lines curling away from his mouth. "Change your mind about your personal theory already? I have to say, that'll go on record as the shortest blowjob I've ever received."

"No," Bruce whispered at last. "Just changed my mind about what I'd like to do to you." The easy smirk slowly came back to his face as he released one of René's hands and reached for the small bottle of lube. He opened the cap and let René watch it slide over his fingers before he sank back down, back where he was before. René's eyes narrowed with a certain satisfaction, but Bruce didn't mind giving him a show. Warmed between his fingers, Bruce trailed the gel around the base of René's cock before winding lower, massaging his balls before dipping even lower still. Bruce bent down as he did it, tongue darting out to pick up where he'd left off. 

René didn't breathe a word of protest. If he was used to being dominant, he didn't seem to mind a change of roles, at least for the moment. His teeth caught on his lower lip as he felt Bruce's fingers circling and teasing. One digit slipped inside and René hissed and tilted his hips. A quick glance up dissuaded Bruce of the notion that René was in pain. The blond was focused and inviting, even daring, something about the tilt of his chin implying a challenge.

In the low light, Bruce could almost imagine paint on the man's face, instead of shadows.

Bruce was surprised to find himself groaning at that image. It had startled him just moments ago, the likeness. It had been throwing him off ever since they left the club, but Bruce had to admit that it was...safe, in a way. This man was not the Joker. And René did not know what Bruce was thinking when he looked at him. It was all in his head. 

Bruce had checked the Joker was still in Arkham not six months ago. They were set to notify him, or rather one of his pseudonyms, immediately should he ever be moved, make an escape attempt, or be released. Although there was exactly zero chance of the last. 

All said and done, whatever went through Bruce's mind right now wasn't going to hurt René and it wasn't going to compromise anyone else either. Bruce had no one to answer to but his own imagination, so he let himself add a second finger and suck a little harder. 

René finally couldn't keep his hands off Bruce any longer. One tangled in his hair in some semblance of control, and the other gripped Bruce's shoulder tight enough to leave nail marks. There was an edge of disbelief in René's gaze when he looked down at the billionaire, but it wasn't the star-struck awe Bruce had seen before from dates who felt amazed that they'd been chosen by a local celebrity. Shock, perhaps, that Bruce was turning out to be a more suitable match than he'd expected.

"Oh _fuck_ -" René bit off an explicative when Bruce's fingers slid a little deeper and curled upward. The sound of his voice, turned lower and rougher from lust, sent another jolt of heat through Bruce. Altered like that, René's voice was _almost_ familiar. "...I've not done this in a while. You might end up having to go easy on me. This time, at least." René's mouth curled into a shameless grin.

Bruce pulled up and squeezed the base of René's cock, recognizing that statement for what it was. René was just as excited as he was. After several more strokes, Bruce added a third finger and watched the man's neck arch, head tilting back on the bed. His movements were becoming more loose, more relaxed, more comfortable with himself. Bruce's ministrations surely had a lot to do with that. 

By the time René's expression began twitching, eager, impatient, _something_ , Bruce determined he was ready and released his fingers. He gave the man's cock another firm squeeze as he added more lube to his palm, slowly stroking it over himself. 

Bruce couldn't help staring. René's eyes had turned to slits. The shadows still clung to him. If he could have read minds.... Bruce tried not to think about that. He tried to push away the image of another man as he rose up and brought himself into position, leaning down and close to catch any protests as he did so. 

René didn't wait for him. The blond wrapped around Bruce hungrily, legs snaking around Bruce's waist to pull him down. The movement was enough to close the last bit of distance; the tip of Bruce's cock slid inside him, and Bruce felt René shudder. His lips were parted, and there was something almost feral in the man's expression. 

Bruce was still staring, and René seemed torn between being amused and irritated. "If you see something you like, you can look all you like when we're done. _C'mon,_ " he rasped.

Bruce felt like the air had been knocked out of him. That _sound_. His hips snapped forward, drawing a grunt out of René, and so Bruce did it again. The heat of him, the pressure of his body, the _friction_ , it was all exquisite, but Bruce needed to hear that voice. It dropped low, right where it should be, but then went too high again and each time Bruce was jarred. He couldn't decide whether he wanted this fantasy or not, but if he decided against it, he'd be fighting his body. Something in him, something very deep and very secret, wanted this. 

Bruce grabbed René's hands and bent into him for a kiss. He forgot the way the man had denied him earlier. All that existed was the present, and it was a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth, Bruce fighting to go deeper. 

René's hands tried to curl into fists; his nails cut into Bruce's skin. His head turned, trying to keep Bruce's tongue from plundering his mouth. When Bruce wouldn't take the hint, René outright growled and nipped at him once in warning, then bit him when he tried again. Bruce suddenly tasted copper as he pulled back.

...and saw a small amount of his own blood on René's lips. The crimson stain made him look slightly crazed, and René seemed oddly _pleased_ despite the way he'd fought against Bruce's kisses. His tongue darted out to clean the blood off his lips and he moaned softly at the taste. "...I told you. I don't do that kind of kissing."

The strange thing was that Bruce didn't get the impression René was upset at all. Even though he meant it. Bruce would have felt chastised if it weren't for that, not sure what had come over him to make him forget. The look on René's face brought his hips snapping forward again. He found he couldn't slow down. And René didn't seem to mind. 

Bruce got up close again, but he didn't try for a kiss this time. One of his hands raked through René's hair, catching in the ponytail and loosening it in annoyance. It was starting to curl wildly at the edges of his temples, the heat of their bodies setting it into disarray, and Bruce wanted to see it even wilder. He nuzzled into the man's jaw as he thrust, letting go of René's other hand to hitch his hips up against Bruce. He could feel the squeeze of René's legs around his back and the shift and tightening of the muscles inside the man's body. Bruce loved it. 

The more passionate Bruce got, the more René seemed to lose control. He tried to pull Bruce closer, and there was an urgency in the way he met Bruce's thrusts and clawed at his back with his one freed hand. Ravenous, demanding. Bruce wasn't inclined to deny him, and as he quickened the pace, Bruce started to hear René again: low noises of pleasure, so very close to his ear with Bruce pressed against his jaw as he was.

René's hand finally snaked between them to wrap around his own cock and stroke in time. He started to murmur something that almost sounded like the start of Bruce's name, but quickly cut off into a hiss, and then silence as he bit down on his own tongue.

Bruce lifted enough to reach René's ear. "C'mon," he whispered, voice low and grating. "Say it."  
He gave a sharp thrust of his hips, and then a very slow, very deep one, drawing it out, hearing René whine from the back of his throat before Bruce drove in again, quickening the pace. His hand caught around René's where he stroked himself and Bruce brought them up short, slowing his thrust and the twist of René's hand again. Leaving them both on edge. 

"C'mon..." Bruce whispered, bringing the pace back again. 

" _No._ " René's voice was a perfect facsimile like this - low, gravelly, and with a slight hint of a whine. Bruce's hips jerked forward in response, drawing a grunt from René. The blond squirmed and tried to buck his hips, seeking out the last needed bit of stimulation to send him over the edge, but Bruce was having none of it. René was pinned enough that when Bruce paused or held his hand still, none of his struggling made a bit of difference. "No, c'mon... just... a bit more..."

Suddenly Bruce found himself wishing it was another name on the tip of René's tongue. One that also started with a B. He wrenched the man's head back and drove in deep, letting loose his own growl of pleasure before he forced his movements shallow again. It was as much torture for him as it was for René. 

Bruce didn't know what he was hoping for. René wasn't... And he didn't know the Batman. But Bruce was caught up in a frenzy, and so was the man beneath him. He could all too easily imagine this in a different scenario - torn mouth laughing beneath him, crying out for more, shaking and digging his nails into Bruce's armor while- Bruce gasped and grasped the base of his own cock, not wanting to come. " _Say it,_ " he growled deep.

"No." René's eyes were half-shut, his head tilted back, forced into an awkward angle from Bruce's grip in his hair. And yet... if it hurt, he didn't seem to mind. René's mouth was curved into a smile, enjoying the way Bruce was losing control. Something about the way Bruce looked at him after his denial must have struck René, because he started to laugh. Or rather, something between a laugh and a moan, two different sounds twined around one another when Bruce slowly started to move again.

Bruce's thrusts came quicker. He had to let go of his own cock so he could take hold of René's again, unwilling to relinquish his grip on René's hair. Bruce squeezed, maybe a little too hard, but the way René's mouth dropped open told him his instinct had been right on the mark. The man's throat was bared to him like this, and Bruce imagined another man pinned under him, caught in his snare, writhing to free himself, but Bruce - the Batman - would never allow it. 

Bruce bent low and sank his teeth into that solid column of throat. 

René cried out and came _hard_ , his back arching as much as Bruce's weight would allow. His hands scrabbled at Bruce in a blind attempt to pull him closer, as if there was another step deeper beyond penetration by cock and teeth. His nails caught, tore the skin, and Bruce felt a sting and accompanying dampness. René's legs tightened and his hips shifted, changing the angle and allowing Bruce to sink just a little bit deeper.

Two, three more strokes and Bruce was done. His body went rigid. All his weight sank into René. He couldn't stop as he came, muffling his own cry into the man's flesh, wishing in the back of his mind that it would leave a scar just like the others René carried. He was as deep as he could go, spilling and spilling until he had nothing left to give and Bruce collapsed. 

Everything went still. Bruce’s chest was heaving. He didn't let go. His mind felt fuzzy. Bruce wondered if this was what people meant by seeing stars. 

Sticky fingers slid into Bruce's hair while both of them gasped for breath, keeping him close. René was practically melting beneath him, and it was only then that Bruce truly realized just how tensed the man had felt every time they'd touched, even before they'd fallen into bed. Some internal spring had uncoiled and lost its stored potential energy.

"...you weren't lying when you said you'd be exciting, were you." René's voice was still throaty when he'd finally recovered enough to speak again. Bruce lifted his head and found the man watching him with an unusual intensity in his half-lidded eyes. Shadowed like that, they almost looked black, glittering like an animal's.

"No." Bruce gave a short laugh. "Apparently not." But he couldn't keep up the lighthearted act for long. He was too spent, too caught up in this man's eyes. His face. Everything about him. Bruce had him pinned physically, but René was holding Bruce with his gaze alone. Bruce should have been waking up now. He should have been regretting this, feeling the repercussions of imagining the Joker, of all people, juxtaposed onto this man's face while they... But it seemed Bruce couldn't stop. Because the likeness hadn't gone away. "Where the hell did you say you came from, again?" 

"Suddenly so interested. Is that a good sign?" René flashed Bruce a sly grin and preened a little. His fingers slid from Bruce's hair only to return, stroking as if they were longtime lovers rather than strangers that had decided to have an experimental fling. " _Rouen._ A city for people who tend toward dramatics, really, between Notre Dame, L'Armada, and the execution of Jeanne d'Arc."  
René leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "Mais ne vous inquiétez pas. Je ne suis pas un lâche, mais je pourrais être un peu fou. _And_ I speak English. But I think you knew all of that."

"Vous et moi , peut-être," A half smile quirked Bruce's lip. He didn't want to feel guilty just yet. For just a night, Bruce was going to enjoy this, crazy or not. Still, he tried to see René for René. The gentle strokes at his hair helped and Bruce tilted his head into them until fingernails caught lightly against his scalp. And it was even better. Bruce sighed into the touch, laying his head against René's chest and wondering just how crazy he really was. He was exhausted. His heart was still beating fast, and so was the one beneath his ear. "Stay," Bruce said before he knew it. 

"I can't. Not tonight." René's voice, rumbling in the chest beneath Bruce's ear, sounded truly regretful, and it showed equally on his face. His smile dimmed and gained an apologetic, sorrowful edge. "I'd like to stay if I could, but I can't. I don't work that way, not with first dates. Or second, even. I suppose you could call it a quirk, if you wanted to be polite about it, or paranoia if you didn't. I'm a very private sort of person, despite picking up strangers in clubs."

René's hand stilled. "...something tells me you understand."

"Mmm, you'd be right," Bruce admitted. The sting was lessened with that in mind, but still he felt an unusually strong desire to hold onto this man. In recognizing that, Bruce forced himself to separate from his imagination finally. René reminded him of someone he shouldn't have, someone who, when he was free, Bruce had sought with single minded abandon for entirely different reasons. He would never want the real Joker like this. It was... simply unexpected. A likeness that had produced a secret, unfathomable kind of fantasy. Fleeting. By morning when René wasn't covered in shadows and wicked smiles, Bruce would wonder how he ever saw it. He should not fixate on this man. 

With that, Bruce stretched, allowing himself to move some of his weight off the blond.

René breathed in deeply as soon as Bruce shifted. He was still watching Bruce intently, and there was a sense of uncertainty in the gaze. Whether that was due to Bruce's reputation of going through partners like tissue, or a matter of his own mixed feelings, wasn't clear. "I have to admit, I wasn't expecting you to be... what I was looking for. You didn't exactly seem the right type for it."

Bruce gave a short laugh, resting on his arm. "I get that." He paused. "I didn't exactly expect to find what I was looking for either." René watched him carefully, like he was trying to fit Bruce together piece by piece, and Bruce in turn watched him do it. He'd been...projecting somewhat of a fantasy onto René ever since they wound up in Bruce's bed and he was finally starting to feel a little guilty about it under the man's scrutiny. It made Bruce wonder if it showed. 

"Did you even know what you were looking for? From what I gather, I'm not your usual type. Maybe you never found it before because you weren't looking in the right place," René suggested with a hint of a grin. He watched Bruce carefully, but the billionaire wasn't letting much of his feelings on the matter show through. "...does that mean you're interested in another time, or is this where you feed me polite excuses and get me out the door?"

Bruce's smile turned more subdued. "I asked you to stay, didn't I?" When René stubbornly continued to meet his gaze, not giving in in the slightest, Bruce relented. "Yes. I'm interested." And he was surprised that he meant it. He moved closer, remembering now René's reluctance about kissing. Deep kissing, at least. So Bruce just hovered over him. At this distance he could see quite a lot of René's expression. Every lash, every twitch of his mouth. The way he wore a faint amount of makeup Bruce hadn't even noticed in the club, it was so well matched to his skin. Bruce waited until some of the wariness left René's face. "Are you?"

"Very. Even if it ends up making my life more difficult. I can't imagine you're an _easy_ person to... _date_." René said the word with an air of incredulity, but one corner of his mouth turned up at a wry angle. "But that's not a complaint. I like complex, and I enjoy a challenge."

René noticed Bruce's gaze lingering on different portions of his face and leaned closer, initiating another kiss as a distraction. One hand slid down Bruce's side, following the lines of his ribs and settling over the deep scar lower down.

Bruce inhaled sharply. 

It was a convenient spot for René's hand to wander and the scar made for an interesting ridge to follow idly, but Bruce's skin was starting to crawl. He couldn't know of its significance. Except that Bruce had been so surprised when he'd touched it the first time. But then again...René had touched it first. The look on his face... The rational part of Bruce's mind told him it was coincidence. It was a pronounced scar. But then again, Bruce didn't believe in coincidence. Not until it was proven. 

Batman was gone, on the run, in hiding, not coming back, and here Bruce was thinking like him again, longing for something he couldn't understand, from a man who looked like the Joker no less. And still Bruce bent into the kiss. 

René's fingertips were clever and his tongue even more so. 

That was when Bruce's phone went off. 

René jumped and pulled back, a far quicker reflex than Bruce expected. His eyes sought out the origin of the sound, and after a second he adopted a relieved expression. It might have been convincing had Bruce not been close enough to see other subtle signs of tension, or feel the body underneath his hands taut and ready to move at a second's notice. "...oh, it's yours. Are you the sort to only get emergency calls, or can that wait until later?"

Bruce brought his hands up to René's sides. He was calm now, but he surely could see Bruce had noticed his tension. "Don't worry. It's Alfred. He's just trying to save me." Bruce caught René's eye with a smile, drawing his attention away from where the phone rested somewhere in their discarded clothes. Bruce ran his fingers down the back of René's neck, kissing him again and letting it go to voicemail. 

"Ah. Wait, who's Alfred?" René asked once they broke apart again. Bruce's fingers were close, so close, to so much delicate tissue - fragile bones, sensitive nerves, critical blood vessels. René's body seemed to fight against itself in its reactions; he tensed again, but his pupils suddenly dilated and his breathing grew shallow. Arousal - perhaps in response to vulnerability, or the faintest suggestion of control. 

Bruce paused. He let his hand curl loosely around the back of René's neck and when he did he felt the man's body tense. And then shiver. The corner of Bruce's mouth curled. He almost forgot René's question. 

"He's, uhm..." Bruce gave another soft laugh. "He's my butler. Probably assumed this would have ended much sooner than it has." Bruce's smile gained a hint of sheepishness, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He was interested in other things. Namely, the way René reacted to his touch. 

Carefully, slowly, Bruce let his other hand drift up René's chest, thumb rubbing at his collar bone, fingers wide, gently curling, inching up toward the front of his neck in mirror to his grip at the back. 

The closer Bruce's hand got, the more René tensed. Bruce could feel the man's pulse ratchet up. Rather than looking down at the digits creeping up to close around his neck, René's brown eyes were fixed on Bruce's face. It was almost as if the rest of his face was a mask, too still and unreactive to fit with the way lust filled those eyes, feral and glittering. René shivered violently when Bruce's hands finally reached their goal, curling around the circumference of his neck with a light pressure.

Bruce felt more than heard the growl erupt from his throat. He hadn't meant to make that noise, but the way René reacted. For a split second Bruce saw another man, lip split and cheeks red with both blood and paint as Bruce drove his fist into his face, his head ricocheting off a tile wall and how he was _laughing_ the whole time, eyes wild with hunger and delight. The vision faded, but what it left behind didn't. That look in René's eyes... there was something in it that matched. A similar desire. 

Bruce applied more pressure. Before he knew it he was kissing René again. 

René kept the kisses controlled and shallow, but he returned them just as fervently. His hands crept up and seized Bruce's hair hard enough to hurt, but not to damage. It was part of this game, whatever it was, and somehow _affectionate_. A low sound escaped René's throat and he squirmed. One leg moved and nudged Bruce back on top of him.

Bruce could feel René growing hard again as soon as he was draped over the man. René's throat convulsed beneath his hands as he tried to swallow.

That set heat pooling deep in Bruce's gut. Before he made a conscious decision to do it, he ground down against René with his full weight, driving him into the bed. Their skin was too dry and sticky, too sensitive for this kind of play, but Bruce didn't care. By the look on René's face, he didn't either. Bruce allowed him a short breath and then with another growl, he cut off René's air completely, all the while without stopping the rough roll of his hips. 

A normal person probably would have panicked at that point, between the body's instinct to fight for air and the slender line of trust that was being tested to its limits.

René wasn't a normal person. He pulled Bruce in, rather than pushing him away. Bruce couldn't even detect a spark of fear in him, no flicker of worry about whether the hands around his neck were going to let go in time. René's legs tensed against the mattress and he took the abuse _gladly_.

Normal or not, Bruce shouldn't have been doing this. He barely knew René. He could really hurt him. The man had done nothing wrong, nothing to warrant any anger on Bruce's part... but that wasn't what this was. Bruce felt no anger. He felt heady, absolute, overwhelming _control_. It wasn't punishment. He didn't want to see the light leave René's eyes. He wanted the man's focus on him, on _only_ him. He wanted to hold René's life in his hands... but not to destroy it. There was such a strong, and strange, sense of fondness that came with such a destructive action, Bruce was amazed at his own ability to feel. 

He caught René's lower lip between his teeth and bit just as their time was running out, just as René's skin began to take on a purplish hue. Bruce had held lives in his hands before. He could count the seconds he'd need. Until finally he let go. 

René's body reacted on instinct, gasping for air. A few muscles twitched from random nerves firing. Healthier color rushed back into his face, even as the skin around his neck began to darken with a pattern of bruises.

All of that was perfectly natural. So was the blissful, drunken look on René's face, the product of a rush of chemicals released from asphyxiation and the subsequent recovery. What was strange was the sudden burning look of affection René gave Bruce, as if having the breath choked out of him was tantamount to a romantic declaration.

Very slowly a smile spread across Bruce's face. It wasn't the sudden, overwhelming kind of affection René was showing him. It was something that crept inside of him as he looked down at the other man, buoyed by René's satisfaction, but not that alone. When faced with this man, Bruce had to admit there had been something, on some level, he had found more than fascinating about the Joker. The extremes he'd gone to, the way he'd _felt_ so much, _expressed_ so much. The way he'd wanted the pain Batman gave him and turned it into something desirable, something far more profound. If he were to pluck those qualities out of the Joker and put them inside another man, Bruce imagined he'd have René. 

His fingers stroked gently over the man's neck and Bruce leaned down to kiss the reddened skin. 

René was still relaxed, still catching his breath. Bruce drew closer and his head turned without hesitation to allow him access. Lips touched abused skin, gentler now above the bite mark Bruce had left earlier, and René's arms drew around him to keep him there. Tenderness was an odd juxtaposition after so much controlled violence and pain, but there nonetheless. René didn't seem to want to let Bruce move and allow the moment to end.

Until he finally ended it himself. Bruce felt René's throat contract, and suddenly the arms around him unlatched and started to push him away. The blond looked like he was in pain when Bruce sat up enough to catch a glimpse of his face, now turned away from Bruce. "...I have to go."

Bruce blinked. "Already?" But René was already pulling himself up and out from underneath Bruce and all Bruce could do was watch. René hadn't reacted badly to anything he'd done. He'd said he wouldn't stay the night, but...now? Bruce wanted to reach out and touch him, but his back was turned. It wouldn't be welcome, Bruce could read that as clear as day in his body language. 

René hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid off the bed. He started hunting for his clothes, pulling things on carelessly. His blond hair, now untied and a fairly wild tangle, was obscuring most of his face as he kept his head tilted down, but Bruce caught a glimpse of what looked like tears rimming his eyes. "Don't worry about it. It's really nothing you did, and I haven't... changed my mind about this. I just-... I have to go."

Scarred skin disappeared under layers of clothing as René pieced himself back together. His hands patted over his pockets, looking for something. 

Bruce quickly pulled his shorts back on, but left it at that. He didn't want to take his eyes off René even to get dressed. 

"What?" Bruce stepped closer. René's obvious distress was concerning and Bruce couldn't tell what had changed. He also couldn't tell what the man was looking for. He'd noticed earlier that night René didn't appear to have a phone, unless he was keeping it in his shoe. That was marginally unusual, but not unheard of. But if he'd lost it before he'd even encountered Bruce at the club... 

René glanced up for a moment. There was still a damp, red outline to his eyes, but he'd managed to compose his expression back into something neutral. "Hmm?" He followed Bruce's gaze to his hands. "...oh. Nothing concerning, I just forgot I didn't bring cigs with me. Trying to quit, and all that."

One hand finally slid into a pocket and pulled out a business card. René glanced at it before handing it over. All it contained was what was, presumably, a phone number - no name, no address, nothing else. "I'm going to be busy for the next few days, but I'll get in contact with you after that. You can reach me at this phone, if anything comes up. Or if you change your mind," he added quietly.

Finally Bruce stepped into the man's space. That was all the welcome he needed. Bruce folded the card in his hand and let his arms move loosely around René's sides, trying to catch the man's eye even though René was suddenly very closed off. "Hey, c'mon. You think I'm not going to call you back? You don't think I'm serious?" That got Bruce a quick glance of brown eyes. "What is it?"

René gave him a very strange smile - tremulous, fragile, slightly manic, and more than a little nervous. René manage to look Bruce in the eye while mulling over his response. "...I'm still hoping you're serious. I just need- I need some time. To think. You remind me of him, the... my old partner I lost, in a number of ways," he admitted. "Which isn't a bad thing. I just wasn't _expecting_ it, you understand, and it hit... a little hard."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He had to fight the urge to laugh in disbelief. " _I_ remind you of an old partner?" Bruce caught himself before René could ask. "Look... it's alright. It's fine. Take whatever time you need, just... don't go anywhere, alright?" He had René's attention now. "I'm not." 

Even now Bruce wondered at the wisdom of getting involved with a man like this. One who both reminded him of somewhat he definitely shouldn't, and apparently reminded René of someone else in return. This night was supposed to be a publicity stunt. It was supposed to end the moment René got in his car. Bruce's date was supposed to go home before ever setting foot in the tower, much less the penthouse. And yet...here they were. 

"Good." René's response came out more like a growl than he'd intended. Bruce saw a flicker of surprise pass across René's face before it got replaced with determination. "...good. I'm not planning on going anywhere, not for quite some time. I should contact you in a few days."

René turned in Bruce's grasp, walking towards the door. He didn't seem to mind that Bruce came with him, one hand still on his waist. A hint of a smile had made a reappearance again. 

Bruce grabbed a light robe off a chair and shrugged into it as they moved through the house. René easily remembered the way back down to the entrance and the elevator and when they arrived, Bruce paused at the edge of the doorway. "Do you need a car? I'll send one to meet you out front. Take you wherever you need to go." Bruce had brought René there with no thought to logistics, but that was the way it usually went. That was why he employed drivers. 

René's smile widened, as if on the verge of laughing at some internal, private joke. "No, no. Don't bother with that. I was planning on my own transportation anyways. Change of location isn't going to be a problem."

René turned and invaded Bruce's personal space one last time, one hand sneaking through the folds of his robe while he leaned up and kissed him. Dropping back down on his heels, he grinned and winked at Bruce, then backed through the doorway. "Call me."

Bruce leaned against it and watched René move down the hall, spinning at the last moment to enter the elevator. The last glimpse of the man's smile before the doors closed stayed with Bruce as he turned back into the penthouse, rubbing his hands over his face, raking them through his hair until he was standing alone and a mess in the middle of the foyer. He left for the spacious living room, marble cool on his bare feet. He felt alive and... rejuvenated as he looked out onto the city below. A part of him had been resurrected, some part he didn't even know was there. Some part that had been missing since the Batman had been retired.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reviewed! We're happy to be reviving a little piece of an old fandom. If you like the fic, come find us on tumblr:
> 
> ScintillatingVoid: [scintillatingvoid.tumblr.com](http://scintillatingvoid.tumblr.com/)

Dr. Joan Leland was surprised to get a call during her morning routine informing her that one of the asylum's board members had booked a visit for the same day. More surprising even than the late notice was the identity of the visitor: billionaire and philanthropist Bruce Wayne. While Dr. Leland had met Wayne a few times during fundraising events, community outreach efforts, and reviews, she'd never known the man to visit since she'd taken over the leadership of the psychiatric hospital. Her impression had been that while Bruce Wayne was quite serious about his dedication to philanthropy and compassion, and ardent in his support for those trying to unlock tools to heal terribly broken minds, the billionaire was very hands-off and tried to limit how directly he was involved. Dr. Leland suspected that something about the institution might have made Mr. Wayne uneasy, given his own past trauma and years in therapy. 

She set aside her paperwork and paged one of the aides to help take over some of her more menial morning tasks, then made her way down to the asylum cafeteria for some coffee. She had a feeling she might need it.

It was on her way back, steaming mug in hand, that she ran into the notable billionaire being led through the hall by one of the security officers - Tracy, Tammy, something. They were laughing. The billionaire looked younger than the last time she'd seen him, but maybe it was due to the smile on his face and the way he had his escort nearly holding her sides over something they were talking about. 

He looked up and their eyes met across the hall and Joan knew he recognized her, which was a bit of a surprise. Bruce Wayne never gave off the impression that he was the sort to remember nameless faces of the doctors and staff who ran the projects he was involved in. The guard, seeing Dr. Leland as well, let him go with a wave and turned back down the hall. 

"Dr. Leland," Bruce held out his hand. "Thank you for meeting me." He laughed. "They gave me this badge, I suppose that means I'm safe now. Just have to give it back at the end."

"Well, safe so long as you stay in the visitor areas and follow protocol," Joan agreed, but she smiled and took his hand. Everyone knew Mr. Wayne's reputation, but it never seemed to matter. The man was charming, had a certain sense of innocence about him despite everything, and he seemed to genuinely want to do good. Most of the time he seemed to think throwing money at problems was sufficient, but there were a surprising number of problems that _could_ be solved that way with the proper application of funds. Wayne had never interfered with Arkham's operations before, and so she was more than amiable to accommodate him a little. Particularly if accommodation meant funds for a few more staff members and needed upgrades.

"Very nice to meet you again, Mr. Wayne. I have to say, I'm a bit curious what's prompted the sudden visit. Coming to check up on how well we're using your donations? Or is it more a matter of curiosity?" Joan's smile faltered a bit at the last. "We do get quite a bit of that from people. I assure you, mental illness is not as glamorous or entertaining as the media might lead you to believe."

She swore Bruce looked a little self-conscious at that, his carefree smile shrinking a little at the corners. "Well I have to admit, this one is more of a personal curiosity." He gestured for her to continue walking and so she led him back to her office while he spoke in a more subdued tone. "I don't know how much you've heard about what happened, but some years ago one of your patients crashed one of my fundraisers and not long after someone very close to me was killed." He said it so smoothly, so calmly. 

When she darted a glance at him he held a much more somber look than he had minutes ago. "I...well, every year after I check up on him. Just because. For my own peace of mind, maybe. But I noticed this year I hadn't seen a report. Nothing confidential, mind you. But it's been on my mind lately, so I thought I'd come in person for once."

"... _oh_. Mr. Wayne, I'm so sorry." Joan's own expression turned much more sympathetic. She took a seat behind her desk and, after a moment or two of thought, her eyebrows drew together. "If I'm remembering correctly, you're talking about Patient 0801. Or... well, who used to be Patient 0801. We never got a name out of him that wasn't his alias. Not one that we could trust or that ever checked out, anyways. Quite a few people actually tried to get access to him in the past, out of curiosity or a desire to vent and get some closure. He ended up being dangerous enough that we eventually denied access even to the medical students that wanted to interview him - got out of his restraints and somehow managed to maul one young man with just the pen and paper he'd brought with him."

Bruce winced. "Good thing I wasn't planning on a face to face meeting anyway, but...what do you mean he 'used to be' Patient 0801?" Bruce pulled up a chair and sat forward, brows forming a curious twist above his soft green eyes. Joan could see why people fell for this man. He seemed genuine in this moment, and he probably was. He knew she'd heard about the tragedy. By now his life of public tragedies was probably something he was used to sharing. If it made him uncomfortable, he didn't show it. 

Joan straightened her shoulders. Perhaps... perhaps, in this at least, she could give the man a sense of closure. "Unfortunately, Patient 0801 is no longer with us. We found him dead in his cell one morning, about four months ago. Left ventricular hypertrophy - in layman's terms, his heart gave out in the middle of the night, according to the coronary report done on-site." Her mouth narrowed. "...possibly for the best. I care about all of our patients here, but there wasn't much we could do for him. He terrified and attacked the staff, would seem to make progress only to violently relapse, and was undoubtedly suffering in ways we couldn't help to fix or ease. There's a lot about the human mind that we don't know, and several disorders and diseases that we don't have effective therapy or medication to treat."

Bruce didn't move. He blinked. Just once. She could swear he looked paler than he had only a moment ago. He sat in disbelief for the better part of a minute before regaining some composure. "He... that's..." Bruce sat back and breathed out sharply. "That was the last thing I expected to hear." It wasn't clear whether the sympathetic look she was giving him made any difference. Bruce looked downright shocked. "There was an autopsy?"

"There was. As I said, left ventricular hypertrophy. From the report, it looked to be very sudden, but natural. We had a natural concern that one of the other patients, or someone from outside the hospital, might have wanted him killed, but the coroner couldn't find any signs of foul play." Joan was watching Bruce with no small amount of concern; even if the billionaire had had mixed feelings about the Joker due to his involvement in the death of a loved one, his reaction was unusual. "You understand that I can't show you the medical records, as patient confidentiality applies even though the patient is deceased."

Bruce nodded. He still looked a little out of it, but trying to pull himself back together. "Right. Well. That's...that's all I needed to know, I suppose. Thank you, Dr. Leland. I'll let you get back to work." With that, he rose slowly from his chair, still looking a little shell-shocked. She rose with him and he took her hand. "I can see myself out. Thank you again for meeting me."

Joan's hand tightened around his. She didn't understand why Bruce was suddenly distraught, when she'd hoped that the news would ease his mind... but her lack of understanding didn't matter. She smiled kindly and gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go. "I'm sorry I seem to have given you an upsetting answer. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. You're always welcome to visit."

"Thank you. I may someday." Bruce smiled for her, finally regaining some of the presence he'd walked in with. With a quick nod of his head, he left, shoes clicking down the hall as he went. 

But Bruce didn't make for the exit. He stopped at the front desk, pulling the badge from his pocket and sliding it back to Tammy, the security guard who was surely more friendly with Bruce than other visitors. "I have one last favor to ask. Could you get me the number of... whoever it is who takes care of funerary services for patients? I just have one last question." He smiled, expression firmly back under control. 

"Sure thing, Mr. Wayne." Tammy’s eyebrows rose, but she went to her keyboard and had a name and number down on a sticky note for him within moments. 

"Thank you, Tammy." Bruce nodded politely and left, digging out his phone and dialing as soon as he was out the front doors. 

The phone rang a few times and finally got picked up by a somewhat breathless man on the other side. He coughed once to clear his throat. A low murmuring could he heard faintly in the background - a group of people conversing quietly. "Spelman Mortuary Services, how might I be of assistance?" the voice on the other end spoke in hushed tones.

"I'm calling from Arkham Asylum, I just need to double check on one of the plots." Bruce put on a pleasant but distracted tone. He knew Arkham had a private lot at the edge of the grounds, but little more than that. "We're updating our logs and it seems whoever entered these a few months back might have gotten two mixed up. Would you be able to confirm this for me?" 

"I-... certainly, just give me a moment to go through our records." A squeak of chair springs could be heard, followed by footsteps. The distant sound of mourners disappeared. There was another squeak as the man resettled in a new location and a quick tapping of fingers on a plastic keyboard. "What are the dates and plots you're looking at?"

"Four months ago, Patient 0801 and, give me one sec..." Bruce brought up the search on his phone, quickly looking for a list of obits at the asylum dating to around four months ago. Patient 0801 was not listed, but several lesser known patients were. He brought the phone back to his ear. "And Henry Brown. Can you sort out who's in which plot?" 

"Just a moment..." More tapping made it through the receiver, and a few seconds later the man cleared his throat again. "Oh, I can see the confusion, two cremations done that close together. 0801 was interred in row 7, plot 127. Mr. Brown is in row 3, plot 46. Doesn't surprise me that Arkham's mixed things up. I keep telling the staff their organizational system doesn't make any sense. If they'd just standardize, the paperwork wouldn't be such a nightmare."

Bruce laughed. "I'm with you on that one. Maybe someday soon. And hey thanks, hopefully you won't hear back from me in a while." Bruce said his goodbyes and hung up the phone. _Row 7, plot 127._ He committed it to memory and glanced out over the sprawling grounds. Behind the imposing stone architecture, he could just make out the edge of a gate surrounded by several large oaks and greenery. 

It was unsettling to imagine the Joker lay there, somewhere beneath the dirt and stone. It was unsettling to imagine he wasn't _alive_. Bruce, Batman, had _saved_ his life. In spite of everything. In spite of Rachel. Dr. Leland was right, this should be a _relief_ for him. It should be. ...and yet it wasn't. 

Bruce swept a hand over his face, trying to will down the jumble of conflict inside him. He climbed into the Mercedes and made his way back into the city. He had one more phone call to make. Bruce had saved the number René had given him last night, and when the call connected to voicemail, it took him a moment to speak. He let himself pretend it was due to his eyes on the road. 

"So if you didn't think you'd hear from me again, here I am," Bruce injected good humor into his voice, enough to draw his mind out of his earlier thoughts. "And I'd still like to see you again. I know you said you'd be busy for the next few days. But if you still don't believe me, I'll keep calling." 

Upon disconnecting, Bruce felt marginally better. René, unexpected and strange as he was, had been the inspiration for Bruce's visit to Arkham. Whatever the Joker had left in Bruce's mind, he was gone now. René was very much still here. 

Three days later, Bruce was sitting through yet another meeting in the Wayne Enterprises conference room. Try as he might, Bruce couldn't bring himself to get excited about what amounted to financial number shuffling. He was much more of an ideas person than an accountant, and his brain had checked out of the conversation half an hour ago.

Bruce was jolted back into alertness by the buzz of a phone vibrating - the phone he'd placed screen-down in front of him, next to the finance decks they'd been reviewing. The other suits in the room looked askance at Bruce as he picked up the offending object. All it took was for him to turn the phone over and recognize the number on the screen, and Bruce was excusing himself out of the room. 

His cell was lifted to his ear as soon as he was out of earshot, and René's voice was recognizable on the other end. "Hello, stranger. Still interested in seeing me again?"

It was like a wave of warm water had suddenly engulfed him. Bruce felt tingles of the sensation run from his neck down to his legs and he was grinning before he even knew it, catching a knowing glance from a woman walking in the opposite direction. Bruce turned and made his way to the windows down the hall and looked out over the city. "Absolutely I am. When are you free?"

"I should have things wrapped up by tonight." René sounded more than pleased by Bruce's enthusiastic response. "Did you have something particular in mind? Another night out, or were you hoping to keep me all to yourself? I wouldn't mind going out for drinks again, so long as I get some more personal time with you later."

As unaccustomed as he was to the rush of heat that one sentence brought on in the pit of his stomach, Bruce welcomed it. "Yes, definitely some personal time." Bruce let the smile show in his voice. "Let me take you somewhere. You've been to Whitehall. I've been to Whitehall. Actually I spent less than an hour in Whitehall, but it was more than worth it," Bruce laughed while he ran through a list of high profile clubs that might hold René's interest long enough. The trouble was it was difficult to make assumptions about his tastes at this point. Well, Bruce had learned something of his 'tastes' already, but that didn't necessarily help him here. "What do you say to the Venice Room? Something a little more private." Still very much in the vein of Whitehall, and welcome to the LGBTQ+ crowd, but notable for its VIP list. 

"Nobody ever turns you down when you show up at the door, do they?" René laughed, but the question was a lighthearted dig at the social differences between them, nothing more. "I've never been, but I'm willing to give it a try. Come to think of it, anything I need to know before I get there? Not that I think they'd kick me out with you on my arm, but I don't want to show up underdressed. Too much dissonance spoils the mood, and I'm not out to crash any parties. Unless, of course, that's your aim."

"Dress however you want. It's a club, they'll deal with it. Or I'll deal with it because you're right, no one ever does turn me away." What aim Bruce had had in the beginning had been quickly pushed to the sidelines. He and René had made the morning papers and speculation abounded at Bruce Wayne's possible mystery tryst. He knew if they were to be seen again it was only going to fan these flames, but he didn't care. Bruce could live with it even if he did start getting questions and raised brows in the near future. "Tonight. 8 o'clock. What do you say?"

"Deal, but I'll meet you there." René paused, and quiet laughter came through the receiver. "Side effect of being in the business, you understand. A tendency for dramatics rubs off on you even if it wasn't there to begin with. I want to surprise you. Besides, a little anticipation could do you good. I can't imagine too many people keep you waiting."

"I don't mind waiting for you," Bruce laughed softly. "Just make sure the rest of your night is free." 

By the time they hung up, Bruce had been gone for over five minutes and he wasn't going back. Meetings with the company weren't so much of a farce anymore, but he'd never be able to keep his mind on track now. And no one would miss him anyway. Bruce made for the elevator, already dialing Alfred to make arrangements for the night. 

A few hours later found Bruce waiting outside the Venice Room, pinned by many a speculative gaze while he checked his phone. No further word had come from René, and while it was only ten minutes after their agreed upon time, that was a full ten minutes of being out in view of the paparazzi, conspicuously alone outside of a club. A few cameras had already flashed and a small group of photographers were setting up nearby, much to Bruce's annoyance. 

Luckily, Bruce didn't have much longer to wait. He noticed the blond well before the photographers did. René was still recognizable, but the slight changes had a notable impact on the impression he made. In dark, form-fitting jeans, a dark blue collared shirt, and a clashing, light grey pinstripe blazer and slightly scuffed dress shoes, he managed to look suggestively rumpled and casual despite wearing more formal clothing than he'd been sporting at Whitehall. His blond hair had been pulled back tighter and smoothed down from its normal messy waves. Sharp, black eyeliner drew attention to the contrast between his eyes and hair and... somehow, only made his face seem that much more familiar.  
René's pleased smirk grew as the paparazzi finally noticed his approach and began a frenzy of clicks and flashes.

Bruce made sure to roll his eyes at them in full view of René as he greeted the blond. He'd dressed more casually than his usual attire this time, suspecting René's choice would not be in place with the usual restaurants Bruce's social circles frequented. But he'd meant it when he said he didn't care. René was a celebrity now just by association, and this was a club that would cater to that kind of celebrity. 

The cameras didn't stop their flashes and Bruce let them see the way his hand found its way to the small of René's back before they ducked inside the doors, greeted and allowed to pass immediately by the doorman. 

"It's good to see you again," Bruce said into René's ear the moment they were inside. It was dark, and much smaller than Whitehall, but still loud with music and conversation all around them. 

"Likewise." René glanced around, taking in the layout and what little he could make out of the clientele. From the smaller booths and subdued lighting, René was quickly gaining a measure of what sort of club it was: a place for the city's elite classes to see and be seen, but not constantly. It was a place to be glimpsed at the bar, or on the floor, and to retreat into the more private cubbies for conversation and a rest from social performing.

His curiosity satisfied, René let Bruce lead him over to one of the empty booths. Their progress was followed by one of the waitstaff; no doubt they would get solicited for orders once they were settled. "Glad to see a few days didn't change your mind."

"You were so sure it would, weren't you?" Bruce asked, not entirely teasing. He remembered well how serious René had been when he'd left. But they were interrupted by a waiter before René could respond. Bruce ordered a bottle of wine while their menus were placed before them and the waiter listed off several popular choices before Bruce politely dismissed him. 

"I'd thought that a few days would make you reconsider. I don't seem the sort you normally go for." René was barely paying attention to their surroundings. He didn't pause from studying Bruce, even when their waiter returned with their order, filled their glasses, and left. The club lighting, combined with his serious demeanor, was eerie; the shadows cast over his face made it seem as if Bruce was talking to a ghost. "Or maybe that's why you didn't reconsider."

"That's exactly why I didn't reconsider." Bruce glanced down at the glass in his hand, wondering just how much he should admit to René. It was going to sound ridiculous, or even insulting, if he tried to tell him just how much and why René had kept his interest. So instead he lifted the glass to his mouth and took a long sip. Bruce took a second to think about it and decided that statement might also be construed to indicate this was still a fling. And when Bruce thought again, he couldn't exactly deny that it _might_ be a fling. René was constantly reminding him of someone else. Someone he would never, ever consider becoming involved with, but on some level whatever it was about René that invoked that similarity did it for him. That did not, however, mean this would last. 

"Not going to get any details out of you, I take it?" René raised his own glass, considering Bruce over the rim. Whatever he was about to say died on his lips as another man passed by their booth. He'd only glanced at them for a second, but what he saw was enough that his step faltered. He stopped, breaking the unspoken club protocol to stare at René, who'd stiffened.

Bruce recognized their interloper; Tom Sefin was a regular at some of the other clubs and events Bruce frequented, and reportedly was even more of an indulgent hedonist than Bruce Wayne was rumored to be. Tom's gaze left René to glance at his companion and immediately recognized Bruce. "...wow. I have to say, I'm pretty damn impressed. Leon's turned everyone down that's wanted him to play escort, regardless of compensation, and you get him to say yes? Does this mean we're going to see you down at Impact sometime soon?" 

The effect the man's words had on René were stark; his expression grew darker as the man talked until he was practically glaring daggers at Tom.

Bruce glanced between them and began putting the pieces together quickly. "Tom!" he exclaimed, rolling with it, "It's good to see you again. I didn't realize you two knew each other," Bruce smiled as though he hadn't just been thrown completely off, and as though it weren't obvious René was seething. "And I'm sure I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." He raised his brows and knew it would be impossible to tell whether he was being discreet or genuine. 

"We haven't been formally introduced, but..." Tom whistled lowly, and a muscle in René's jaw twitched. His grip had tightened on the stem of his wine glass, and Bruce suddenly had the impression that he was contemplating the way the spike of glass would look when shoved through a piece of Tom's anatomy. "Kinda hard to miss. I seriously hope you're not pulling my leg, Bruce, or I'm going to be even more put out. You should see his work."

"I'm sure you have me mistaken for someone else," René interrupted. Everything about his body language was projecting displeasure. It was an unmistakable disinvitation, and yet Tom either wasn't noticing or wasn't inclined to take the hint.

Bruce, however, was. He gave a minute shrug. "I'm sorry Tom, looks like we're going to have to disappoint you. This is René." Bruce gave him a sympathetic smile but he was ready to motion the waiters over if René showed any worsening signs of displeasure. For both their sakes. Bruce was not nearly so naive as to believe him, but he had to play along for now if only to get Tom away.  
Tom glanced at Bruce, which only nettled René more; Tom was clearly taking Bruce's word, and his wishes, over René's own. That in itself said quite a lot about Tom's personality. The man finally gave a grin and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, suit yourself. Give me a shout if you do ever decide to come down to the club. I can show you around and give you a tour, if you don't already have a willing guide."

Tom walked off, and René's eyes followed him as he left, burning a hole in the man's back.  
Bruce whistled. "And here I was so sure that was going to happen to me first." He glanced at René, attempting a playful air but the other man did not look at all mollified. So Bruce levelled with him, pushing aside his wine glass. "Dare I ask? Do you have a secret identity at some club I should know about, Leon?" Bruce cocked his head and made his tone just playful enough that René could dismiss it if he wanted to. 

René's eyes narrowed. He hesitated just a split-second too long. "Why, are you concerned about secret identities having a negative impact on your public image?" He raised his glass and took another swallow of wine, his spine straight enough that he still appeared defiant. Defensive. "I wasn't lying about the fact that I'm in theater work. I'm just in a different sort, at the moment. One that was supposed to be more discreet, but seems to have proven a failure in that regard."

Bruce softened his expression, trying to placate the other man. "I do know a thing or two about secret identities. And no. If you know me at all, you'll know there's very little you can do to tarnish my public image." He shrugged. "I'll back off if you want me to. You've alluded to this before and I haven't forgotten. I also haven't forgotten just how much I enjoyed your 'tastes' a few nights ago, if this has anything to do with that." For a split second Bruce remembered having his hands wrapped around René's throat, carefully cutting off his air until his face turned red. 

René quietly gauged Bruce's reaction for a moment. He finally accepted Bruce's olive branch as sincere; his shoulders dropped as some of his tension drained away. "It does. Not necessarily in the ways you might immediately think, so if you're trying to ask if you should get tested, the answer is no. I have enough training and skill in some things people enjoy watching, or experiencing, that can be hard to come by."

Bruce's brows raised in genuine curiosity. "Then I suppose I should be flattered you chose to spend your time with me. And enjoyed it enough to come back." Finally he lifted his fork and took a bite of salmon, signaling he was comfortable enough to relax and enjoy the meal they'd ordered. There would be more drinks after, and socializing if their little run in with Tom hadn't put René off completely. René might have thought, and Bruce had given him no reason to believe otherwise, that these things mattered to him. Bruce wasn't quite sure how to drop the persona he'd so carefully created for himself. Even Rachel had barely been allowed to see through it. 

René seemed, if not put off enough to abandon the evening, upset enough to have lost much of his appetite. He picked at his food, and what little he did eat was cut to ribbons beforehand, not even big enough to savor and chew. He mulled over his wine glass instead. 

"You're different." René had been quiet long enough that it was almost a shock when he spoke up again. "I don't let patrons touch me. They pay for the privilege of having me do things to them, and knowing they'll come out safe on the other side. Or for watching. If you weren't different, if you hadn't interested me, our first night would have ended much differently, and much sooner."

"And what makes me so different?" Bruce asked, scrutinizing René across the table. He wasn't exactly meeting Bruce's eyes yet. Bruce thought back and he could pinpoint the moment things had changed between them. It was when René saw the scars. Scars René happened to have as well, and Bruce wondered if the likeness had meant something to him. Bruce had passed off their origin for very different reasons than René had, but...René had responded so well when Bruce had been aggressive later. Perhaps he suspected Bruce wasn't entirely forthcoming about his own life. 

René's gaze snapped up. He seemed to be looking _through_ Bruce in a way that was almost eerie. "...it's difficult to pinpoint, exactly, but I have a gut feeling that we're more alike than we'd think at first glance. The show you put on for other people, when they've been around us, is very much like what the media shows of you, and it isn't real. It's thin as paper, and it starts to disintegrate around the edges once we're alone. I don't think I've even seen all of it yet. Just _hints_. But." René raised his glass and gave Bruce a devilish smile, slowly regaining the playful edge Tom had killed. "Even just glimpses, I've liked what I've seen."

Bruce found a grin slipping across his mouth to match. René was right. Probably had no idea just _how_ right, but he appreciated it. And Bruce _liked_ that. "Perhaps so," Bruce admitted. He took a sip of his own glass. "I wouldn't mind exploring what's underneath those masks." 

René's eyes were burning a hole into Bruce now. The rest of the club had faded away entirely. Bruce could hear the music, was aware of the other patrons moving to the bar and then off down to the dance floor and the private rooms, but he was certain that René could not. The man was barely blinking.

"Would you, now." René was eerily still, barely breathing, like some beast of prey crouched in the grass just waiting for the right moment to strike. His tongue darted out in reflex, licking his lips and testing one corner of his mouth before it disappeared again. "Somehow I get the feeling that's something you haven't really done before. Did you have a specific idea in mind, or is that your way of inviting me to try my expertise?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. His attention had been drawn to that motion so thoroughly that everything else had stopped. He's seen René lick his lips like that before, but it wasn't René he saw when he looked at him now and Bruce's insides froze. He had to clear his head. He took a breath. "I don't know what your expertise entails...but I do know I liked what we've done so far." Bruce's heart picked up. Something about the way René continued to remain so still...he tried to shake the image of the other man, but it was impossible. Still, he remembered what he'd wanted to say, and Bruce forced himself not to stop. "I think there's only one way to find out."

A smile crept across René's mouth and his eyes narrowed in pleasure. The expression fused two different images together for a moment - René as himself, and his darker doppelgänger, blended into something that was both and neither at the same time. Bruce's slight unease only seemed to pique René's interest even more. "I think you're right. I have to admit, I'm curious whether you like both sides of things, or if you only enjoy dishing out punishment. Trying that would involve a bit of trust on your part, but I promise I wouldn't take you out too far on your first time."

Bruce laughed softly. Some of his self-awareness returned to him at that. "I don't tend to trust very easily. At all. We'd have to see about that." Already he suspected this may not be such a good idea. Bruce might have been confident enough in his own physical prowess and ability to trust another person to tie him up or whatever René had in mind, but this thing about René unsettled him as much as it excited him. Parts of him. In unexpected moments. Illogical it may be, but Bruce was less inclined to let his guard down. 

René's smile twisted in amusement. "You don't trust easily, but enough to take a complete stranger home to bed. Which means either you trust to a certain degree, or simply feel overwhelmingly self-confident when inside your comfort zone." Something about that struck René as funny, summoning a subdued bout of laughter. "...you do realize that I've just confessed to you, tonight, that my side job involves pushing people past the edges of their comfort zones? And getting paid very well for it. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be disappointed if you gave that a pass, but I won't press."

Bruce's smile turned wry. "We'll _see_." René might have more of a fight on his hands than he realized on that point, and yet he continued to look at Bruce as though he were just waiting for the right opportunity. So Bruce pushed his plate aside and downed the rest of his wine. He met René's gaze with his own and something that felt a lot like a challenge sparked between them. Suddenly the room felt ten degrees warmer. Letting himself drink tonight was a testament to just how much he was allowing already, and perhaps that had something to do with it when Bruce decided he'd had enough of the club already. Bruce nodded to René's barely touched plate. "You look like you're done with that."

René gave a half-shrug. "I'm hungry for something else." He arched an eyebrow, and Bruce felt a pressure slide up along the length of one trouser leg. There was no doubt about it, then; René _was_ challenging him, in his own way. Pushing to see how far Bruce was willing to go, how much he'd admit to wanting, whether he'd tolerate much in public. "You seem like you're done showing me around here. If you've had enough of this place, why don't we go work on that _trust_ of yours?"

Bruce leaned forward and, not incidentally, into the touch. With one swift motion, he drew his leg back and thrust it around René's, locking the man's knee against the wall. Bruce allowed a small, secretive smile onto his face as he caught the way René's eyes widened and his body tensed at the suddenness. "Something tells me you're going to have to work for it," Bruce breathed lowly. He held for a moment and then released René, standing and offering the other man his hand. 

René's surprise sparked into something dark and heated. He appeared almost ready to pounce on Bruce right then, heedless of whoever might witness them. René's hand trembled when he reached out to take Bruce's hand, and he held on just a little too tightly. "I don't mind working for it. I don't mind at _all_." 

Bruce pulled him to his feet, and René took advantage of the motion to lean in close enough to whisper. "What remains to be seen is if you can handle it. Once I latch onto a goal, I don't give up."

Bruce grabbed his arm and pulled René through the dining hall, through the crowd, and then back out onto the street. They way he'd looked at Bruce...it sent something molten running through his core, hot enough that even the man's words didn't deter him. The valet saw them but they were left waiting another excruciating few minutes on the sidewalk. With René's body pressed to his side and his mouth so close to Bruce's ear, even if he had to lean up to do it, Bruce was liable to overheat soon. And they weren't going to escape the paparazzi either. They'd been spotted by at least two who'd seen them come in, who'd been waiting down the street for this very moment.

René didn't seem to mind that they were being photographed in a somewhat suggestive position while they waited. At least, he didn't mind enough that he was willing to put a little distance between them. René was far too caught up in the moment, scrutinizing Bruce with a set to his mouth that hinted at schemes and secrets he wasn't about to reveal. Eventually his mirth grew too much to contain; he flashed a grin and leaned up again. "When it's just you and me, I think we're going to have a little interrogation."

"You are putting entirely too much stock in my willingness to give in," Bruce tried to give René a look that might deter him as the valet pulled up, but it had absolutely no effect. Bruce let him go with a shake of his head and, because the cameras were watching and because this had been his plan after all, opened the passenger door for his new companion before quickly going around to the other side. In a flurry of white flashes, they were off again. 

René was quiet the rest of the way to the Penthouse. Aware that the driver, and later the doorman, were only paid for a certain level of discreetness, he limited himself to simply watching Bruce. It should not have been as titillating as it was; René managed to project a suggestive air through a palette of subtlety. An arched eyebrow, the quirk of a mouth or the tilt of a head, the slide of one hand against the other. The enticement was kept at a distance; he refrained from touching Bruce until the elevator doors closed and they were alone again. 

"Still reticent? Or are you willing to play a game?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed as he glanced to his conspiring partner. He couldn't deny that René had his attention entirely, and had kept it in spite this new angle. Bruce folded his arms and leaned back against the elevator wall, fixing the man in his sights. He knew he made a rather imposing image when he wanted to, even without the cape and the cowl. 

"What kind of game?"

" _Relax._ You look like you're expecting some sort of grueling test," René laughed. "Think of it as an icebreaker, of sorts. I want to get to know you a little better, so I'll ask you questions. You can refuse to answer them, no catch, and I don't get to ask why you're refusing. If you _do_ answer, you get to pick a reward, within reason. Same rules apply to me, because it's not very fair if only one of us is learning about the other."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but his posture loosened up. "A twist on truth or dare? You _are_ kinky." But the look in René's eyes didn't give anything away and even Bruce's levity couldn't soften that stare. The elevator doors pinged. "Alright," Bruce gave in. "You've got my interest. I'm willing to play along." With that he pushed off the wall and led René into the penthouse for a second time. 

This time, Bruce was prepared. The halls were dimly lit for their convenience, and the mood. The living room looked far more inviting with warm lamps illuminating the area, even if it was just as expansive as it had been before. Still, it wasn't Bruce's focus as he led René down the halls back to his bedroom. He knew he should really invite the man elsewhere in his home, but every time they wound up here, Bruce was hard pressed to wait. 

René barely glanced at their surroundings. He'd seen enough the previous time he'd been there. He was too busy considering his next few moves to pay attention to trivialities. Luckily, Bruce was equally focused, if not quite for the same reasons; René closed the bedroom door behind himself only a few minutes after they'd set foot in the penthouse. 

"We'll start with something simple to warm up." René's secretive smile was back in place, but with an edge to it. He had something very specific in mind, undoubtedly, but it wasn't clear yet. "It's my understanding you work for your own company, but you really don't _have_ to. I'm guessing it's from a sense of obligation, because business meetings can't be that exciting. If you can imagine being impoverished enough to have to work for a living, what would you _want_ to be doing?"

Both Bruce's brows raised at that. It was...just about the last thing he'd expected René to ask. And he honestly had to think. He didn't have a ready made answer for something like that, in part because he hadn't thought about it in quite some time, also in part because what he would answer and what the Bruce Wayne the media knew would answer were very different things. Still...he'd wanted to be more open with René. Now that the Batman was gone...

"Hmm... If I didn't have all this money... " Bruce stepped up to the slighter man, hands running up the folds of his jacket and idly slipping it off his shoulders as Bruce thought. He'd spent seven years on his own, off in South Asia, across countries, through rugged land and even worse work. Prison, often enough. But what he had _wanted_ to do? He'd always wanted to do the same thing since he was eight years old. "Something for the community, probably. I'm not a leader, but I'd make a decent planner. Cop, maybe. Someone who could help people."

"Mmmm. So a different sort of philanthropy." Anyone else Bruce had dated in the past would have tossed the answer aside as frivolous and inconsequential. René moved with Bruce and let his jacket drop to the floor, but he didn't take his eyes off Bruce's face. There was a consideration in his gaze that said he was truly interested, not just tossing out questions in a rush to move them towards unusual bedroom requests. 

René stepped closer and returned the favor. A hunger lit up his face for the split second Bruce's arms were trapped by the sleeve of his own jacket. "Ask for a reward, and then you get a question of your own."

As soon as Bruce's hands were free, they were lifting to René's face, one at the back of his neck, the other with a thumb to his bottom lip. "A kiss?" Bruce asked softly. It was a simple request, for most people, but he hadn't forgotten René's preferences since being bitten the second time he'd tried. This close, soft brown eyes followed him with what Bruce was strangely certain was a hint of unease. 

René hesitated, just for a moment. A bit of his playful air slipped. His pupils were still blown wide with lust, even more so now that Bruce was this close and touching him. He looked entranced, but an edge of nervousness was buried just beneath the surface.

After another moment, René's arms wrapped around Bruce and he drew up on the balls of his feet, closing the last bit of distance. The kiss was strangely soft, given the intensity of their last night together and the way René had been looking at Bruce the entire evening.

The edge of wariness Bruce had been carrying melted into it, even with just the slightest brush of tongue and slighter hint of teeth before René was pulling away again. Bruce found real affection welling up within him at that, and suddenly he knew his first question. His hands slid down René's back, resting at the small of it, just above the ridge of his belt. "Why don't you like kissing?"

René let out the breath he'd been holding in a sigh. He didn't turn away, though - just stared back at Bruce while he considered his response. "I do like it, to a certain extent. Just not deeper sorts. Bad experiences, is my guess, that turned into a preference. I've never had anyone kiss me with tongue and actually enjoyed it. Something about the texture. I might be willing to give it another try again, someday, but I think it will end up a lot like that trust you mentioned: something to be worked for."

Bruce snorted softly. "Fair enough. Now...do you have a request for me?" He raised a brow and let the corner of his mouth curl, quickly remembering where they'd been only moments before. He really shouldn't allow himself to be nervous over the things René wanted to do to him. He wouldn't be with anyone else, even if it wasn't his preference. Bruce knew it was the man's likeness that was unsettling him. 

René went utterly still. From what Bruce could tell, he wasn't even breathing. Something dark and hungry bled into his brown eyes and vanished a second later, the same moment he took a breath again. "...I have several, but I don't want to push things too fast." His gaze turned sideways as he thought, and in his distraction, his tongue darted out, just a brief flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth. "...shirt off and face down, on the bed."

Bruce let his brow fall, schooling his features back into place. "Alright." His fingers deftly undid the buttons and slipped it off his shoulders, revealing the myriad of scars below. Bruce knew René would be watching the way muscle moved beneath his skin just as intently now, judging just how strong Bruce was, estimating what he could and could not do should Bruce attempt to take his control away. At least, Bruce imagined he was. Because that's what Bruce would be doing. He turned and moved onto the bed. He wasn't nervous just yet, but he was definitely alert. When Bruce laid down, he folded his arms up by his head and turned to watch René. 

René's smile abruptly turned fond at that display of wariness. He crawled up onto the bed to join Bruce and ended up straddling his waist. "You'll probably enjoy this more if you relax and stop craning your neck to see what I'm doing, but suit yourself." 

René's hands started to move, tracing over scarred skin, testing where nerves were deadened or sharpened due to the old injuries. Bruce might have suspected the touches were going to turn into a back rub, if one tinged with a fetish, but then René was leaning down. Bruce wasn't quite able to see what he was doing, but then he didn't need to; something hot and damp trailed along the sensitized skin just outside of one ragged line. René drew his tongue along the edges of Bruce's scars and, every so often, moved to tease the skin on either side of Bruce's spine. A hint of teeth sent a jolt of adrenaline through Bruce's nervous system, his body responding automatically to the perceived threat.

A small gasp escaped his mouth, but it wasn't from fear. Bruce's rational mind let him calm. For now. There was no real danger in René's love bites, but Bruce's nerve endings responded to the slide of tongue and the sharp nip of teeth just as well. Better, perhaps, with that knowledge. He stopped trying to watch René, knowing it was futile unless he twisted around. But the little voice in the back of his mind reminded him not to get too comfortable. René was bound to be working up to something. Still, Bruce groaned again at the sensation of tongue along his lower spine. So far René's tongue had been elusive to his kisses, and yet here it was, back on his skin and even though Bruce couldn't see, he could _feel_.

René drifted lower until the waistband of Bruce's trousers impeded his progress. He moved back up and settled atop Bruce with a contented sigh, leaning over Bruce's shoulder to whisper in his ear. "I think that means it's my turn again. Let's see... I could do with a bit of self-flattery, I suppose. You had an entire club of people you could have picked from, and yet you singled me out. Why? And no cheating with some short, canned, response. I want to know what you like about me, since you didn't have enough time to really know much about me before whisking me off the club floor."

"What, you thought I was lying when I said it was your smile?" Bruce laughed. He felt René's weight press into him just as certainly as he could feel the man's eyes on him, waiting. He could tell René heard the tell of a little amusement in Bruce's words; he'd proven himself quite perceptive. Bruce should be wary about that. He took a breath. "I found you...very attractive. And yes, it was convenient that you didn't know my friends - that you were outside of the socialite circles. Hm, but it was more than that." Bruce thought back, remembering the way René caught his eye before he realized who it was Bruce was reminded of. "There was something different about you. Something I liked."

"Oh, spare me. I'm getting buried in too many specifics," René laughed in return. His arms slid under Bruce's and wrapped around his chest. One palm was settled just over his heart, and René's breath ghosted over the shell of Bruce's ear. "So I've gotten _attractive_ and _different_. I hope you're not expecting much of a reward for that eye-opening information. I was wondering if you could tell as much about me from observation alone as I could about you, but that's looking unlikely."

Bruce laughed outright. "What can I say, I'm not exactly the world's greatest detective." He turned his head and met René's eyes. As slightly miffed as he sounded, the man was still smirking. Smirking like he really did know Bruce's secrets. Still Bruce just grinned back at him. He'd warned the man he didn't trust easily, and hoped this would be taken as such. Bruce allowed a hint of mischief into his smile as he took hold of René's arm to anchor the man and then pulled as he shifted in the opposite direction, effectively flipping himself onto his back without throwing René off. "So you think you know a lot about me, do you?" Bruce let his hand slide down René's backside, gripping firm muscle. René only grinned. "I suppose asking you to undress would be a bit too much?" Bruce asked. "How about shirt and pants?"

"I'm not going to object, but I'm going to make you take them off. Lazy answers," René chided, but a playful spark was back in his tone. The disappearance of his annoyance seemed to coincide rather neatly with the moment Bruce had shifted and begun to touch him again. A test proved the theory to have some merit - René's expression grew more distracted as soon as Bruce managed to strip off his shirt and made contact with skin. They were close enough that Bruce could watch gooseflesh break out on René's arms.

"...and yes. There are many things I don't know, obviously, but I have some pretty good guesses about some things."

"Like what?" Bruce asked. He could have asked something else. He knew René was angling to tell him, to keep the focus on Bruce. Bruce would have preferred it otherwise, but it wasn't going to be a serious detriment to his secrets. At worst, flimsy answers would get him was a serious case of blue balls. And he would have to open up at some point anyway. If he wanted to keep seeing René. And he did. Bruce hoped he wouldn't, but he did. 

Bruce slid the buckle free of René's belt, taking hold of the man's jeans and tugging them down. It was awkward with their positioning, but when Bruce bent and René shifted his hips back, he quickly pulled them off. 

A flush of color had already spread across René's face and chest. The look he gave Bruce was a little too fond, a little too familiar considering how recently they'd met. He hummed thoughtfully. "Hmmm. These are guesses, mind, but I have some practice with trying to read people. I think you put on an act quite a lot. Not just to other people, but also to yourself. I can see the shift happen. You smile in a particular way, tense around the eyes to try to make it look sincere, but there's an emptiness that says you've checked out of the situation. You're more _there_ when you're not performing. And you seem to not be performing when you're with me, or when you decided you liked my _tastes_."

René tilted his head thoughtfully. One finger traced a scar near Bruce's collarbone. "You like violence, and risk, but also control. You don't get these many marks by playing it _safe_ when doing martial arts. Or you'd have to be a very careless spelunker. So, risky behavior. Question is, is the running _from_ , or _towards_ something? Given what little I know of your history, I'd guess both." Brown eyes turned upwards towards Bruce's face. "Am I right so far?"

"Right so far." Dead on. Bruce's smile sobered. He wasn't sure if he felt more anxious or...intrigued by the accuracy. René's eyes may have been soft before, but they weren't now. So close and so certain of himself, Bruce felt an uneasy twist in his gut. So much so in that moment that he paused. René stared into him and Bruce felt, much like he himself had been doing, that René was looking right through him. Like he were seeing someone else. "What would you like?" Bruce whispered. 

René exhaled slowly. His gaze moved back and forth as he thought, looking at something inside himself instead of the man in front of him. "... I want you to bite me while touching me. Hard. Enough that I'll have a reminder with me for a few days." René refocused on Bruce and, noting the subtle touch of unease in his face, tried to smile in reassurance.

Another sensation came swiftly after, one that started in Bruce's chest and dropped to the pit of his stomach leaving a trail of heat inside him. He had not expected that from René's insinuations thus far. Yet Bruce could not deny that he was interested. More than interested. René had to have suspected exactly _how_ interested Bruce would be, which left Bruce curious whether this act was meant more for himself or more for René. 

Bruce put a hand to René's back and one to his hip and flipped them, slower this time, letting René feel his strength as he moved the other man's body underneath himself. A quirk of his mouth provided the reassurance René sought and then Bruce was leaning down into him, letting his fingers slip down René's abdomen, scratching lightly as they went. The man's stomach tightened and Bruce's smile widened. When his fingers brushed over the gradually filling hardness beneath René's shorts, Bruce felt a puff of air against his cheek. He palmed René's cock and felt it harden further in his hand before he bent. Like René had done for him, he let his tongue move down the man's neck, feeling a rapid pulse, until he reached the top of his shoulder. A good spot. Lots of muscle, no major tendons or arteries. A place that could take damage. Bruce moved slowly, mouthing at the spot he intended, feeling René arch up into him, and after that he couldn't hold back anymore. Bruce bit down, hard. 

René cried out, and Bruce felt his body go rigid underneath him. The cock beneath Bruce's palm went rock hard. René was making noises that sounded anything but pained, and his hips thrust upward, trying to grind against Bruce's hand. René's arms wrapped around Bruce to try to pull him in closer.

It _had_ been a request for himself, then. Bruce's jaw tightened just a hair further and René practically writhed underneath him, reacting to the pain as if it was an aphrodisiac. For René, perhaps it was, and his reaction was pulling memories of their previous night together back to the forefront of Bruce's mind: the blond man arching up against him, responding to hands around his throat with lust and affection. Trust. It took an extraordinary amount of trust to put not just your bodily integrity, but your life in the hands of a stranger, and yet René had let Bruce cut off his air without a second thought.

Bruce groaned. The feel of René against him, bending for him, straining for him, taking this, it was beautiful. It sent fire through Bruce's veins. All he wanted was more. Bruce turned his jaw and bit down on new skin with just millimeters of difference but strongly suspecting how much the varying pain would light up René's nerves. And it did. The man's voice caught in his throat. Bruce ground down against him, making sure to keep up the torturously slow rhythm of his palm , wanting desperately to be free of his pants, to feel skin on skin, but unwilling to break contact for even a split second. Letting René go was the last thing he wanted to do. 

René bit back something that sounded close to Bruce's name, mangled by his reticence to fully voice it aloud. Bruce might have been unwilling to break contact, but René was becoming equally unwilling to tolerate the clothing separating them. His focus switched from keeping Bruce in place to clawing at the waistband of Bruce's trousers. Another bite just increased his desperation; René made a choked sound. When he spoke again, that hidden gravelly tone Bruce had caught on their first night made a reappearance. "... _off_ , take it off. _Fuck._ "

Bruce thought he might come from that alone. He groaned and lifted his hips to grip the base of his cock through the material, but René was already wrestling it down his hips. Bruce had to break his hold. He did so with great reluctance, using the time it provided to yank the last layer of René's clothing away as well. The blond was twisting under him, wrenching his pants, everything, off at once. Once they were gone, Bruce grabbed him and dragged him back up, back underneath Bruce, wanting, _needing_ to feel what he had just felt. For a split second their eyes met. Bruce knew he was manhandling René back into place, and he needed to know if that was ok. He didn't want to frighten the man, but.... One glance was all it took. Bruce bent and sank his teeth next to the previous set of bite marks. 

René latched onto Bruce's waist, pulled him down, closer... and both of them groaned at the way their bodies aligned. Skin against skin, the contact felt electric - slightly too rough, with too much friction for comfort, but pre-come was quickly easing that problem. René's eyes shut tightly and a shudder ran through him, and then he was sneaking a hand in between them to grip the base of his cock. A hiss escaped through his teeth. 

"...another question. I had another question..."

One of Bruce's hands wound into his hair and gripped tight, holding him in place while Bruce ground against him. He grunted and groaned and _strongly_ debated on whether or not to let go. René might hold it against him later, but he wouldn't now. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and, with a grunt of displeasure, released his hold. His hips stilled. They were both painfully hard. Both gasping. Bruce pulled up to look at René, hand in his hair loosening just enough to let René turn his head in return. "What?"

It took a few moments for René to collect his thoughts enough to speak. All he could do was stare at Bruce with lust-darkened eyes in slight disbelief, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. That Bruce was real. He licked his lips and finally managed to grate out his query. "...I want to know if there's... a fantasy, something you always wanted to try, but never have. And what it is."

Bruce blinked. He had to search. Honestly there were not many, not many in the way that René was referring to at least. However. "I think I might be rapidly developing one," Bruce admitted, surprised to remember his time with the Joker and find _humor_ in it. At least, when faced with this question. Because the one thing that kept sticking in his mind was the way that man had taken Batman's violence in Gordon's pen like he loved it. He hadn't been afraid. He'd been playing his game, yes, but with every punch Bruce threw, the Joker had relished its impact. Bruce wanted to take it out of context. He wanted to pluck that scene from his memory and strip away every pain that man had caused him, everything he had done to the city, every person with so much potential he had destroyed, and affix it to someone new. Someone who wasn't....the Joker. Bruce swallowed, brows knitting. "I'm...not sure I know how to tell you." Or whether he even could. 

"That bad?" René's eyebrows rose, but he took the comment in good humor. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I _did_ just ask you to bite me enough to hurt, and you fulfilled that better than I'd hoped for. And that's not nearly as far as I've gone before. It takes a lot to shock me, if that's what you're worried about."

Bruce still hesitated, and René's expression slowly began to sober up. He shifted uneasily beneath Bruce, a touch worried that he'd managed to put Bruce off. "...you don't have to tell me if you're that uncomfortable. I'm curious, and I'd like to know, but forcing answers isn't part of this."

That brought some of the warmth back to Bruce's face. "I might not be able to tell you, but if you're willing, sometime, I might be able to show you." Bruce watched René's pupils dilate. As though on cue. They were both utterly still and yet he could feel the way his words resonated with the other man, in his very muscle. Bruce stroked his fingers through René's hair where they'd been tangled, a strange kind of affection budding in him after the proposition. 

René leaned into the touch. The movement drew attention to the bite marks now covering his shoulder, contrasted against an untouched length of neck. René hadn't said anything; his expression had changed only minutely, and yet he was practically radiating a sense of longing, a sort of bone-deep hunger that ached and reached to try to draw Bruce in. "...sometime, then. And now it's your turn to ask something of me."

Bruce laughed into René's neck. His body stretched over the man beneath him, feeling everywhere they came in contact with electric precision. It was like torture fighting this desire in order to ask these things. René had to feel similarly, as Bruce could tell exactly how well the man's body was reacting to his touch. He was just as bad off. And still he fought for these questions. Did he think the promise of reward and denial of pleasure were the only way to get life details out of Bruce? Probably, yes. It shouldn't have surprised him, he had told René he did not open up easily and he had given the man no indication that he intended to in the near future. 

"Can we skip these questions?" Bruce asked into the other man's ear. 

Bruce felt the body underneath him quiver in response to the voice in his ear. René hesitated, but nodded soon enough; that alone was confirmation of Bruce's suspicion. René had truly wanted to know more about him and thought that plying him with carnal pleasures was the only way he could loosen Bruce's tongue and get him to open up more fully. "Yes. Yes, we can stop the questions." 

"Good," Bruce breathed just to feel that tremble again. He wasn't disappointed. He did, however, have to climb off of René to find the tube of lubricant and condoms, but he was back in a flash. They were both painfully aroused already. This wouldn't take much. Bruce squeezed the lube onto his hand and warmed it in his palm while he watched René, spread out in his bed, hair a mess, body tense and somehow boneless all at the same time. He still looked like some kind of demon with those shadowed eyes. And his perfectly smooth face. He looked so much softer, younger, than the Joker had ever looked because of that. And then there were times when that aspect of him completely disappeared. 

Bruce wrapped his hand around René's length and squeezed, just this side of painful. 

René's eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered. Whatever Bruce dished out, he seemed to relish. Pain or pleasure, even _particularly_ enjoying acts that another person would have found torturous. When Bruce lightly scraped a fingernail over tender skin, René hissed but arched _towards_ him, not away. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Bruce for long, even with stimuli; something about the intensity held within them, the way lust turned light brown towards glinting black, made the similarities that much more stark. Enough that someone could almost believe in possession, that René's physical parallels were enough to summon a portion of the dead man's spirit. Or an illusion of it. "C'mon."

Bruce couldn't wait any longer. With fingers slicked, he slid one inside René. And then two when that wasn't enough and the man writhed against Bruce for more. It was a quick preparation, but Bruce made sure he did it well even if René looked like he was about to come apart. Bruce gripped the base of the man's cock while he worked, taking some of the edge off. He slipped a condom over himself and a good amount of lube and bent over René, lining himself up and pushing in. He watched flush lips part in that familiar mix of pleasure and pain and Bruce couldn't resist the sudden, somewhat violent, urge to snap his hips forward and bring them flush together. 

René gasped. His hands flew to Bruce's hips and dug into the skin in the brief moment he was allowed before Bruce caught his wrists. René put up a struggle, just for the game; the curve of his mouth told Bruce what he needed to know. René didn't object to the roughness, or Bruce taking control. The tension in his arms and legs was to keep Bruce from winning too _easily_. Bruce leaned in just a bit too close and René tried to catch him with his teeth, then grinned when he missed.

Bruce was grinning back before he knew it. He drew back slowly, ever so slowly, watching René watch him go and finding a wonderful kind of pleasure in knowing René was unsure whether he'd frightened Bruce off or whether he would come back for more. Just as he was almost all the way out, Bruce snapped his hips forward again, and this time he dove after René with his teeth, mirroring the move the man had just made on him. Bruce nearly snagged his lower lip, catching it for a second before René jerked his head away, so Bruce went for somewhere else. The other side of the man's neck, low, below the collar line, but a place he could sink his teeth into. 

As soon as Bruce's mouth closed on the spot, a moan reached his ears and he felt René's body tighten around him. René had started to struggle again, writhing against the hand at his wrists and the way Bruce's thrusts were pinning him against the mattress. The violence of it might have been enough to make Bruce stop in concern if it wasn't for the sounds René was making. _No_ was clearly not even crossing the man's mind. Pain, pleasure, displays of dominance - René seemed to be drunk on all of it. He couldn't seem to get enough, and his body arched in a futile attempt to get closer, to draw Bruce further in.

Flashes of the Joker's wild cries came unbidden back to Bruce as René writhed, but this time it didn't slow him down. Bruce let go of René's neck and fell atop him. The man's body wrenched itself to surround him. René's legs wrapped around his waist and Bruce had to struggle with his wrists, but Bruce managed to pull them behind the man's back. In so doing he was able to wrap himself around René in return, sinking into him again and again in an ever quickening pace. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. Bruce twisted his arms and saw the man's muscles strain against him, felt the pull of his arms, unable to free himself and Bruce...found that he loved it. He pulled up just enough to look into René's eyes, inches apart. Sweat dripped down the man's temples. His gaze was feverish on Bruce. 

"Why do you trust me?" Bruce growled. 

Something about René's gaze was inscrutable - he was looking at Bruce, but through him too, fixated and vaguely hypnotized. Just the fact that Bruce was looking back seemed to be enough to prompt him to try to get closer again; the muscles at his shoulders tensed again, both against Bruce's restraining hands and the pull of gravity. It took René a few moments to collect his thoughts. "...I _see_ you. _You're like me._ I can't-... I _need_ that."

Bruce's hips stuttered in their pace. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. It came out in gasps. René hadn't been the only one to tell him that. Echoes of such a similar voice came back to Bruce. As though he were standing in a cave again. After the fall. The darkness around them, lit only by the glimmer of the city spread out below his tower, it all created this perfect illusion of tumbling headlong into memory. 

Bruce tried to compose himself. He knew René had seen him shaken. He tried to reach back to stability, to the Bruce Wayne René had walked in with. "And how do you know I'm like you?" Bruce asked with another growl and a shallow thrust. 

René just smiled. The expression was still drunk from lust and pleasure, but there was something feral in it. Slightly too wide, or too secretive. René's eyes had turned completely dark. For a moment, just a second, Bruce got the impression that something else was looking back at him, staring out from behind René's face like it was a mask. "This. The scars. I can tell, when someone is like me. Instinct. I _know_."

Bruce growled. It would have sounded like he'd taken offense, like he was rising to fight the challenge, but he wasn't. He maybe should have, but he wanted to _meet_ that challenge instead. 

The shallow thrusts stopped, replaced by the slam of Bruce's hips and René's sudden cry of ecstasy. Bruce released his hands so that he could tangle one of his own in René's hair. One found René's cock and squeezed between strokes. Bruce's mouth sought René's and it was impossible to make the kiss chaste. He tried, but everything inside him wanted to tear at the man's mouth, sink his teeth into that supple flesh so that it resembled another set of scars. 

The way René went tense beneath him had nothing to do with pleasure. The blond growled and bit him, vicious enough that Bruce felt a jolt of pain and the copper tang of blood. René bit him again the moment Bruce got closer to try for another kiss. Crimson had smeared across René's lower lip, and there was a glint in his eyes that said he was keying up for a fight. A real one, not a pretense at a struggle that was part of a game. " _No_ ," he hissed, even as his hips rose to meet Bruce's thrusts.

Reflex and instinct had Bruce's hold locking in René's hair and his other hand flying to the man's neck as he pulled his head back, sucking his lip into his mouth and tasting that blood. The spark of real fight in René had something responding in him that shouldn't have been there. Bruce's first instinct was to respond just like...just like René could be a real threat. He was not normally that jumpy. He could never allow himself to be, but his mind and memory had betrayed him _again_. 

René looked guarded now, but his eyes had lost none of their intensity. Bruce somehow got the strange feeling that René wasn't angry - though he should have been, and rightfully so - just adamant. 

And still their thrusts didn't stop. Bruce didn't think he could. He raised himself up, fighting René's clawing hands to bring him back down, and took hold of the man's neck with both hands. 

René's hands locked onto Bruce's wrists. He didn't try to loosen Bruce's grip. René didn't quite melt into the chokehold this time, keeping a wary eye on Bruce while fingers tightened around his neck. Bruce could feel René's pulse racing under his fingertips.

René didn't last much longer. A handful of seconds after Bruce cut off his air, René's body began to tighten up and the hands wrapped around Bruce's wrists turned white-knuckled. René's lips parted in a cry that was never allowed to escape his throat.

Bruce imagined livid bruises forming where his hands were now. He knew exactly what they could look like. He'd seen bruises like that before. He'd never made them. Some little piece of guilt flickered through his thoughts, even as the man beneath him spilled onto his stomach, watching Bruce, _knowing_ Bruce while his face grew more and more red from the lack of air. 

Finally Bruce released him. He let himself fall on top of René, fingers twining in his hair, face turned, not to kiss him. Just to look. Bruce tried to calm his racing mind, his rapidly building desire, just to see this man as he was and not who Bruce thought him to be. He _tried_. But as he came inside René, the man's face remained a juxtaposition of two. One knew him. The other might as well have been a mask.

The color slowly evened back out in René's face as he looked back, splotches of red evening back out into a healthier tone. A trick of the light, or a trick of Bruce's mind, had almost made it appear for a moment that the mottled skin had outlined a monstrous, too-wide smile.

...definitely Bruce's imagination. René couldn't take his eyes off of Bruce, but there wasn't a hint of a flaw on his face, and the madness Bruce remembered from past encounters wasn't present. René's brow furrowed in concern when Bruce continued to stare without speaking, and that almost made it worse; Bruce could imagine that the frown lines across the man's forehead were the same. "...what is it?" he finally rasped once he caught his breath.

Bruce shook his head and laid himself beside René. "Nothing. Just, sometimes you look different." When René's stare didn't soften and the worry on his face didn't ease, Bruce let the corner of his mouth lift into a smile. "Not wrong. It's..." Bruce didn't want to insult René by telling him he often looked like someone he used to know. "You get this very intense look about you sometimes." 

René wasn't mollified. If anything, his gaze seemed to sharpen, looking at Bruce and trying to discern clues about what he was thinking. "...but you're alright with it? I haven't- ...I'm an intense and unusual person to start with, but I haven't exactly had anyone around to watch me and tell me how I look. Not for a good number of years." His expression darkened. "Not people I'm going to trust to tell me the truth, anyways. A professional environment doesn't count, because they're getting an act."

Bruce frowned. René's seriousness didn't allow him to pass it off as a sentimental compliment. Instead, it demanded a certain amount of honesty in return. And that prompted Bruce to consider, really consider, what he thought about René's resemblance. 

"Yes, I'm alright with it," Bruce licked his lips in thought. "It's... something I'm drawn to, I think. In a weird way." A self-deprecating smile found its way to his mouth as he watched René watch him. Truthfully, if Bruce hadn't been so focused on his own elusive twists of conversation, he might have asked René about his own 'act'. As it was, Bruce found some kind of reassurance in that René at least knew what that was like. 

"In a weird way." René's voice made it plain that he didn't know whether to find Bruce's comment flattering, but a spark of interest had lit up his face. Interest, and something like tentative hope. The topic must have made René more nervous than he wanted to let on, because Bruce could feel the man's body tense under his palm. "...how, precisely? Didn't think you liked playing for another team this much, or didn't think you'd have this much fun with a sado-masochist? Or something else entirely?"

Bruce laughed and sprawled onto his back. He was about ready to hit himself over the head for letting their conversation take this turn. He sighed deeply and thought about his answer. "A little bit of all of the above?" He turned to René. This conversation was uncomfortably focused on him again. Bruce needed to change that. "You said you don't spend much time with other people lately. Even your acquaintance at the club tonight said as much. And yet here you are with me. Is this usual for you?" Bruce raised a brow. 

René gave him a flicker of a smile for the laughter, one that tempered itself once he gave Bruce's question serious consideration. "No. I'm a bit of a loner, honestly. Other people just... aren't interesting. Or are infuriating. It's not that I like being alone in _itself_ , because that gets pretty damn boring, but it's unusual for me to find someone I enjoy spending time with. I see people when I'm working jobs, but that's different, and that ends as soon as I'm done with work, for the most part."

René raised an eyebrow in return. "I hadn't tried to go out and pick up strangers in years, either. The night we met was my first try. Just lucky coincidence."

"Lucky coincidence," Bruce agreed, tone softening. He turned and brushed his mouth against René's, noting the man's wariness and showing him he did not intend to take it further than that. Bruce turned again, back to the other man, curling around him. 

Bruce hadn't done this in some time either. Years, in fact. When he'd done it before, it had felt like he had to, to maintain his reputation, to keep the mask ever present in the minds of Bruce's social scene. And Rachel... It didn't take more than once to realize he couldn't rebound from Rachel's memory with alcohol fuelled one night stands. 

René welcomed the affection. Seemed to crave it, even, just as much as he'd craved the pain Bruce had doled out earlier. His body relaxed in steps, unknotting itself the longer he watched Bruce and became certain the billionaire was content. "Y'know, I should probably warn you: old acquaintances of mine have said I'm difficult to get along with. Although you seem to be doing well enough so far."

"Old acquaintances of mine would tell you the same. And probably will," Bruce chuckled softly. "In all honesty, I'm surprised it wasn't one of my friends we first awkwardly ran into." It was a light tease, but also a warning. Bruce wasn't sure René, if he really wasn't as outgoing as he had first appeared to be, would enjoy the kind of publicity that came with Bruce's name. He'd said he wouldn't mind, but Bruce knew these things could never be anticipated until they were tried. 

And what was Bruce going to do with René anyway? He was still constantly thinking like he had during Batman's reign. Even more so this past week than he had been before. That couldn't last. Bruce had to stop. He had to set that part of himself aside; it wasn't his life now. He was supposed to be learning how to be open again. How to be a real person. 

"So am I," René laughed. An embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. "Most of the people I've worked with aren't really the sort you'd find in a classy, high-end joint under normal circumstances. I wasn't really counting on the fact that a lot of clients at my workplace now probably _are_ wealthier sorts. I'm used to getting a lot of attention when I want it, and then being able to get off the stage when I go somewhere else. So to speak. It's an unnerving experience to be recognized when I'm not performing and out of my element."

"I can imagine," Bruce commented with a sly smile. He would feel the same way, were his face and persona not so publicly recognizable. But that was his performance. And it was tiring to keep up sometimes. Much of the time. It created an odd sense of self. A very large part of him didn't understand why René was here, what he saw in Bruce when Bruce was giving him the mask. Even if he'd let a bit of himself through. More than a bit, perhaps, if René's comments were to be believed. But then the rational part of Bruce's mind would step in and remind himself that the Bruce René saw would seem more than interesting enough. He was the enigmatic billionaire, perhaps with a few secrets of his own. That was more than enough to lure in a curious mind. 

"Do you like it? You don't really get a choice about whether or not you have to put up with it, but do you ever _like_ being recognized wherever you go?" René turned in Bruce's arms in order to be able to get a better look at him. His eyes had taken on a too-bright, inquisitive glint again. "Or do you just... get exasperated and go away sometimes? Get away and pretend to be someone else?"

"Hm. I suppose I do," Bruce admitted. "But I like that it's convenient. My name has allowed me to work in ways I never would have been able to otherwise. So the accompanying social spotlight, while bothersome, has been...a necessary inconvenience at times." Bruce found himself frowning. His life wasn't coming together the way he'd thought it would after the Bat. His work with the clean energy generator was his main priority now, and still it felt like only half of him was truly involved in it. Invested, yes, wholeheartedly. But involved? Late at night he'd find himself looking out over the city, remembering what it was like to catch thermals of warm air rising between the towers on outstretched wings and his mind would be gone. 

René gave him a knowing look. His hand reached up and traced the lines written across Bruce's forehead. "More than a little bothersome and inconvenient, it looks like. Maybe you could use a few nights off where nobody knows you, just for a bit. I know a few-"

René cut off suddenly, gaze swiveling towards the hallway. He'd gone oddly still again, and the flat, attentive look on his face seemed very out of place. Tension wound its way through René's body again, and when Bruce listened, he could make out the source of the man's alarm: footsteps. Dress shoes on a polished wooden floor. Bruce would have recognized the weight and cadence of the sound anywhere.

"Ah. That would be Alfred." Bruce gave him an apologetic smile. He'd told Alfred he'd be having company tonight. Now he suspected his phone had several missed texts if the older man was checking in on him. In person. 

The footsteps stopped outside his door and Bruce distinctly heard his phone chime. He groaned, turned his head into René's shoulder and wished Alfred away. Strangely, René's tension hadn't diminished at all, and that was what eventually brought Bruce back up. 

"I'll take care of it. Stay here." Bruce rose from the bed, taking the dressing gown from its chair and wrapping it around himself. 

Brown eyes followed his progress, out of the bed and over to the door. René didn't seem to know what to do - obey Bruce's suggestion and stay in the bed, to be possibly glimpsed from the doorway, or to move. Strangely, a flicker of suspicion passed across his face, directed more towards Bruce than the presence on the other side of the door.

René slid out of the bed. He moved off towards the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. His discomfort was enough that he didn't want to be in the room when Bruce confronted this interruption.  
Bruce couldn't blame him for hiding. He would have done the same. 

Bruce opened the door, just a few inches, to find a decidedly cross-looking Alfred on the other side. A decidedly cross Alfred who gave his state of undress a very pointed once over, raised brow and all. Bruce felt his face stiffen. 

"Well," Alfred began, managing to look somehow put off and slightly awkward at the same time, "I can see you aren't, in fact, in need of urgent rescue. As your lack of communication would have me believe."  
Bruce sighed through his nose and knew René could probably hear him, silent as it was even in the expanse of the bedroom suite. "I did tell you I'd be out tonight." 

"Not like your usual nights, then," Alfred commented with what may have been a hint of reproach. It seemed he was also aware, though he couldn't see René, that there was probably someone else overhearing their conversation. 

"No, not like my usual nights. Was there something you wanted?" Bruce's grip on the door tightened. 

"Only to make sure you are indeed still alive, and to ask whether you'd like to be woken for Fox's meeting tomorrow morning. At eight o'clock, sharp." 

Bruce sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd forgotten. "Yes, Alfred. Thank you," he added begrudgingly. "I'll be there." 

With that the old man smiled, tight lipped and Bruce smiled back just the same, and shut the door. 

René didn't come back out. The rooms were silent enough that, had Bruce not known there wasn't any possible way for the blond to disappear, he might have thought himself alone. The bathroom doorway was open a crack, light spilling out onto the floor through the gap. Sound finally pierced the silence - a quiet flutter of cloth. Movement within the small room, but still no indication that René was returning to bed.

"He's gone." Slowly, Bruce approached. "He won't be back until morning." He'd hoped René might stay the night this time. Even if Bruce's schedule wasn't very conducive to late nights out and company when he awoke. But if René was willing to put up with an early start... Bruce didn't hold out much hope as he reached for the door, slowly pushing it back. 

René whipped around from where he'd been staring at himself in the mirror. Bruce only had a split-second to watch the play of emotions on his face, blank anger shifting into surprise and, strangely, a subtle touch of fear. There was a wildness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. That, too, disappeared in a matter of a split-second, masked when it was apparent that Bruce was merely coming to check on him. "...does he often do that? Check to see if you're 'still alive'?"

Bruce shrugged, a little too caught up the way he'd surprised René. Startled him, actually. It set something alight in the back of his mind, something that put him on edge, but he made sure his face was carefully blank of unease, carefully soft, considerate, contrite for interrupting the other man when he hadn't been expected. "Whenever I'm out of touch for long enough, yes. He's gotten used to keeping tabs on me, I'm afraid." 

Bruce leaned against the doorway and watched René, letting the tiredness seep into his posture and the soft expression wash across his features, but that niggling something inside him didn't let up. Every nerve he had was on edge and Bruce couldn't quite put his finger on why. 

René sighed. "I can't tell whether it would be comforting or irritating to have someone do that. But it's about that time of the night, anyways." René's eyes traveled up the length of Bruce's form. He was projecting calm now, but Bruce could see subtle signs René was ill at ease. Possibly he had the same ability to sense wrongness as Bruce; Bruce was sure he was covering his alertness well enough, but the blond hadn't relaxed after giving him a once-over. "...planning on letting me out of the bathroom?"

Bruce didn't have to fake the way a smirk drew across his mouth. He didn't move. René, likewise, was absolutely still. The question had held no tension in it. There was nothing to suggest he was actually worried about Bruce's intentions, or being trapped there. Except that Bruce could tell he was. It wasn't any one sign René had given him, because he'd given so little. It was the context. "If I say no?"

"I don't really want to end up spending the night in here, so you might have a fight on your hands." René raised an eyebrow, and the edges of his mouth quirked upward, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Bruce could see him sizing up the situation, just as he'd seen countless other opponents do before - estimating their relative strength and skill, the opportunities and limitations of their surroundings.

Bruce knew when he'd gone too far. He ducked his head and smiled in apology, pushing off the doorway and stepping back out. "Nah, it's alright. You'd probably beat me to a pulp anyway." He caught the slight flash of René's eyes, but it didn't erase the wariness on his face, so Bruce turned and moved all the way back into the bedroom, giving him plenty of space. 

René wasn't quite looking at him anymore, watching Bruce more out of the corners of his vision as he came back into the room and started throwing his clothing back on. Bruce must have gotten further under his skin than he'd thought. "It's about that time, anyways. I need to get back." René noticed Bruce's stillness, the way he stared as he tried to figure out what had happened and if this had just dashed hopes not only for René spending the night, but ever having a night together again. The blond flashed him a brief smile that was meant to be reassuring. "It was good to see you again. Think you'd be up for another, in a few days?"

Bruce snorted softly. "I don't think I could say no." He didn't ask René to stay this time. He didn't ask when he'd hear from him. Bruce went up to him, body language as open and docile as he could make himself. In spite of whatever lingering worries twisted in the back of his mind, Bruce paused before René as the man was pulling on his shirt. Bruce's hands found their way to his hips and rested there. He leaned in one last time, whispering against the corner of René's mouth, "Thank you for coming back."

René froze at the touch, the closeness. The wariness was still present, just beneath the surface of his skin, but it was joined by something else. Affection filled René's eyes, turning them warmer until they practically glowed. Unexpectedly, the blond's head turned and he kissed Bruce, so light that it was barely more than a brush of his lips. "I think you put it very well: I don't think I could say no."

Bruce pulled away only reluctantly, feeling somewhat better. The instinct deep inside him was being subdued. That wasn't normal practice for him. He trained himself to listen to those senses, but here... Bruce wanted this, this thing, whatever it was, with René. He didn't want to let it go, submerged in paranoia. He'd lived too much of his life under an ocean of paranoia. 

"Good." Bruce's hands dropped from René's hips. "I'll let you out, and make sure Alfred doesn't chase you off for good."

That brought a stronger smile to René's face. He finished tugging his clothing into place and stretched, making a show of being more at ease. The non-verbal message was clear: Bruce's teasing threat had been forgiven and set aside. "Overprotective, is he? Am I going to have to worry about a conservative adoptive-parent resenting me getting too close to you? Or is he just as concerned about the women you've brought home?"

"He would have been, had any of them come back a second time," Bruce grinned cheekily, letting René know he was on unusual ground. Which also meant letting a bit of his reputation slip. And that was fine. Bruce wanted to do it. Even if every time the mask came down it made him uneasy. He pulled the robe tight around himself and made sure the knot was secure before he led René back out into the hall. 

The lights were as low as they'd been before for most of the walk, until they reached the main living room. Around another distant corner, Bruce could see the kitchen was occupied as well and the faint sounds of someone puttering about echoed across the marble. At first he intended to see René out without interrupting his butler. Alfred didn't usually like dealing with his 'media conquests' and René had made it more than clear he didn't want to deal with Alfred either. But just as they reached the doorway, a familiar pair of footsteps rounded the corner. 

"There you are, Master Bruce." 

René turned at the sound. It was the first time he'd seen the butler, who until then had been a voice outside the door or the frantic buzzing of a phone. He looked over Alfred in open curiosity, enough that Bruce could almost pick the questions out of his head - wondering how Bruce and Alfred got along, what the connection between the two of them was, where the line between caretaker, employee, and friend might be drawn. The blond tensed and frowned a little when Alfred caught sight of him, started, and gave Bruce a look that René was sure conveyed disapproval. "...you must be Alfred."

"Why yes." Alfred didn't move. If Bruce didn't know better, he could swear the older man looked taken aback by René. The singularly long pause after he spoke told volumes. Alfred was never caught that off guard, and yet he'd known about this whole thing. It was then that Bruce wondered if he didn't see it, too. The faint resemblance. 

Bruce's cheeks colored. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alfred finally beat him to it.  
"Leaving so soon?" 

Bruce gave him a tight smile. "Yes, well, someone reminded me I've got an early morning meeting tomorrow." 

René glanced at Bruce and took the opening he'd been left. "I'm really not an early-morning person, either. Better for both of us to get enough sleep." His gaze flickered between Bruce and Alfred and a moment later he was slowly stepping away from Bruce's side and approaching the butler, one hand extended in greeting. "I realize how awkward this is, but since we're going to be seeing more of each other, we might as well do introductions. René Boucher, _très heureux_."

"Alfred Pennyworth. Vous aussi," Alfred responded, perfectly politely, gripping René's palm. Bruce wondered if he was the only one who could hear the hesitation in Alfred's voice. He knew something was off, and he didn't feel like letting this continue. "Do let me know if there is anything I can get for you the next time you return," Alfred was saying when Bruce Brushed against René's shoulder. It was a subtle gesture, meant to let the man know he didn't need to stand on polite conversation overly long. 

"Thank you Alfred," Bruce said genially, but Alfred didn't take his eyes off René. 

René gave Alfred the embarrassed, flustered smile expected from a casual lover meeting a parental figure. He released Alfred's hand and stepped back, clearing his throat. Alfred wasn't bothering to hide the way he was staring and it made the situation that much more awkward. "Right. Well. I'd better get going so Bruce can get some sleep. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon enough." René touched Bruce's arm, and that was the cue to lead him away and break the conversation.

Bruce nodded once and turned René with a hand at his back, leading him back to the doorway, but Alfred didn't move. He didn't turn around and give them space to say goodnight. Instead, he stood as politely as he could in the corner of the foyer, hands clasped before him, waiting for Bruce. 

Bruce blocked him with his body and the door as he opened it and leaned there while René turned one last time. "I'll make sure he stays out the next time you're here," Bruce said quietly. 

René nodded. He was bothered by Alfred's attitude, even if the older man was covering it up with surface-level politeness. Alfred didn't care for him, and it went beyond the automatically protective stance parents took towards their wards. Any interaction between them was going to be tense at best, and disastrous at worst.

"I'll call you in a couple of days. Work. You know how it is." René leaned up and gave Bruce one last, quick kiss. "Best of luck tomorrow."

"Thanks. You too." 

René stepped into the hall and Bruce didn't let the door shut until he saw the elevator light glowing up, heading for the ground floor. He took a breath and then turned back to Alfred. 

The man was staring at him. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He'd meant to ask, to demand what had gotten Alfred all worked up, but Bruce could see that he already knew.

"Looks vaguely familiar, that one," was all Alfred had to say, tone never wavering, before Bruce threw up his hands. 

" _Don't_ Alfred. Just, _don't_." The elder butler raised an eyebrow and Bruce felt like he was being backed into a corner without even moving. He thought about denying it, about defending himself, streams of defenses ran through his mind, but in the end all Bruce could bite out was, "I'm going to bed." 

He left Alfred in the kitchen, vowing that tomorrow he would find out a little more about this René, just to prove to himself, and anyone else who asked, that he was as far from the Joker as he could possibly be, all appearances aside.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce spent his early morning meeting ignoring Lucius and the small contingent of community planners. He was only there to oversee anyway, and this particular morning his laptop was far more interesting. His desire to track down René hadn't diminished since the night prior. It had been the first thought in his mind when he'd awoken. That, not his alarm clock, not Lucius, not even the energy project, had dragged him out of bed and he was currently typing away at the far end of their meeting table, ignoring the occasional glance. What he was finding, or rather _not_ finding, was beginning to frustrate him. 

Bruce had spent a good number of years learning where and how to access databases of information - those freely and publicly available, and those that were not. René Boucher was proving to be a ghost. As many places as Bruce could think to check, there was no paper trail. It was quite possible he was in the country illegally, or that René Boucher was a pseudonym, as there were no records of such a person applying for a visa, residency, or a work permit. His name wasn't listed for any residency or, for that matter, any phone number in Gotham or the surrounding area.

The phone number René had given him also had no information attached to it. Absolutely none, other than a listing that it was a cell phone and not a landline. Which meant that, most likely, it was a disposable prepaid mobile phone, the communication device of choice for someone who wanted to stay off the radar.

For the first time, Bruce truly felt his gut sink. He'd tracked far too many criminals not to recognize the signs. This false identity.... Eventually Bruce closed the computer and rubbed at his face. He caught Lucius' worried glance and shook his head. It wasn't for the company to worry about. Only Bruce. 

For the rest of the day he walked around with that on his shoulders, knowing René was possibly even more of a lie than Bruce Wayne was. It begged the question then, of just who René actually was. And Bruce was put in the very uncomfortable position of realizing he wasn't the only one with a very big secret. 

One idea did come to mind. It was perhaps the only real lead he had on the man. 

_Impact._

The club's name stuck in his mind until he had a chance to use his computer again. For the first time that day, Bruce got a return hit for his search. The club's website was relatively discreet, but the purpose was obvious enough for the clientele who'd care for its services. Located in one of the shadier neighborhoods, but not anywhere close to the bottom of the barrel, Impact was a place for people seeking unusual sights and sensations. From what Bruce could tell, it was a glorified dungeon. A list of stage names and specialties were posted, with a number to call in order to check schedules and book one of the staff for private sessions.

Bruce scrolled down the list and sure enough, there was a Leon. Most of the items beside his name were pain related - various tools for inflicting different sorts of torture, along with garden variety bondage and sensory deprivation - but a few were more exotic. His was the only name on the list offering hook suspension, knife play, and fire play, along with a side listing that he was occasionally on stage as a fire artist.

It didn't take long for Bruce to make up his mind. Had he discovered anything else about the man, Bruce might have passed over the club until he'd gotten an invitation from René himself, but his curiosity had been piqued past the point of no return. 

It wasn't much of a debate. When Bruce had cause to investigate, investigate he did. So, from 7pm to 9pm he disappeared into the secret bunker in the penthouse and unlocked his old supply cabinets. Disguise was key. Nothing too overt, but he could not be recognized as Bruce Wayne. As Bruce applied new facial hair, a custom tailored wig, lightening foundation, and a new set of clothes, he wondered whether he was being far too paranoid or rightfully so. 

By the end of it, the freckled redhead who looked back at him in the mirror was as far a cry as one could get from the Wayne heir while still projecting an air of wealth and discerning taste. 

He texted Alfred to go home for the night and took out one of his own cars. Bruce didn't want to be followed, nor did he want to validate the elder man's concerns.

Traffic was a slow crawl. Gotham's nightlife never rested, not even during the middle of the week Bruce finally arrived at his destination and managed to find a parking spot. The brick building was large, but looked no different than the other clubs on the street, but for the fact that there was no name above the metal-grated door where two bouncers were standing guard. This was a place predominantly known by word of mouth.

Bruce checked his ID and made sure he had enough cash. Tonight he was one Wallace Vanderbilt, high stakes stock broker. He found a valet lot around the block and tipped them well before heading back down the street. 

He wasn't the only one out tonight. In spite of the weeknight, Bruce could spot three other couples heading this way. He moved with practiced ease up to the bouncers, sporting a somewhat tacky smile and a mumbled "Hello," while producing the fake ID. He got a long once over and a nod before he was let in. This place was not at all similar to Bruce's usual scene. Dark, almost cozy, with a beat up tile floor and entryway that looked like it had seen every fledgling music scene going back at least thirty years. Bruce paid cover at the window, and in spite of first impressions, it was a hefty amount. 

It didn't get any brighter once he was inside. The gloom was broken by low lights set behind tinted glass, with spotlights occasionally fixed on platforms located around the rooms, both on the ground floor and the upper balcony. Hallways on the right and left led off to what looked like private rooms, each with numbers affixed to the outside. A note on the wall informed visitors that they needed to go to the service desk in order to book a room.

In front of Bruce was the main room. The inside of the building had been heavily renovated to permit a complex stage, with two levels of seating. Another hallway trailed off to one side, with a sign that noted the secondary stage could be found in that direction. The room was moderately well populated for it being a weekday; then again, many of the people who could afford such a place wouldn't have been the types to work regular hours, if they worked at all. 

When Bruce scanned the room, he nearly missed spotting René. The blond was seated to one side of the main stage, drink in hand as he watched one of the other employees demonstrating knot-tying and rigging on a volunteer.

Bruce did a double take before he casually moved out of René's line of sight. He didn't wander far. Bruce took up a spot against the wall where he could lean and watch the room, and he had to admit, even at this distance, there was something different about René. It was in his posture, spread out to take up as much space as he needed, but his expression was closed off, body taut. Bruce hadn't actually expected to find him here, not tonight, not the very first night Bruce had shown up and after René had said he needed to get back to work. Maybe Bruce just assumed he'd meant his other vocation. 

As little as René was doing, now that Bruce had spotted him, he couldn't take his eyes off of him. 

René's makeup was much heavier, more obvious, but the same could be said for everyone else on the stage. This was a different sort of theater, but they were working against stage lighting all the same. René watched with bored, half-lidded eyes while his coworker finished up his demonstration to a smattering of applause and appreciative whistles. The club patron who'd volunteered, a petite woman in a dress that was now heavily wrinkled from rope markings, blushed and scurried off the stage back to her table as fast as she could manage, burying herself in the arms of her companion in a show of nerves.

The man who'd been running the rope demonstration grabbed a hooked pole and started to tug the suspended rigging framework out of the way for the next performance. Two other employees began carrying out a platform box and setting it down. René disappeared from the side of the stage for a moment. The stage lights dimmed even further until the room was alarmingly dark.

When René returned, he was carrying several different pieces of equipment that were difficult to see in the low lighting. It didn't stay that way for long. The blond jumped up onto one of the platforms, something sparked, and then he was holding something like a torch in one hand. Firelight glistened off of bare skin - during the short time René had disappeared out of sight, he'd removed his shirt.

René leaned back, touched the torch to one arm, and a streak of fire raced up his skin to light the end of a second waiting torch. The blond ate the flames at the end of one of the torches, then caught and held a flame from the other on his tongue, just long enough to reignite the first.

Bruce's mouth lifted in honest delight. René was...captivating up on stage and Bruce hadn't known he would feel such a spark of joy at watching him move. Watching him _perform_. Bruce drew farther up the wall, getting as close as he dared, and settled in to watch the show. 

He hadn't lost his awareness of the rest of the room, Bruce kept the rooms on both floors in his periphery as best he could without night vision, but truth be told he suspected all the action he wanted to see was right here. Unless, of course, René used those rooms himself, and didn't that just send an awful little pang through Bruce's chest before he remembered Tom's comment - René didn't go home with anyone. 

Anyone but Bruce. 

After another series of tricks, sending flames racing up his arms only to devour them later, breathing fire to transfer it from one torch to the other, music began to slowly be turned up on the stage sound system, low and driving. René moved off of the platform and stepped forward, and two stage helpers raced in behind him to clear it away. René picked up something limp that had been resting in a container near the stage edge, touched the torches to it, and blew them out when the objects in the other hand caught fire.

Fire spheres, on chain tethers. René tossed the spent torches off-stage and began to move, creating tightly woven circular patterns of frame around his body and occasionally catching them with his bare hands, much to the shock and awe of the audience. He even dared to drag the ends across his back, flames dancing on either side of his spine for a moment before René moved them away again and continued to paint patterns of light through the air.

These flames were close enough to illuminate more of René's body, and it was then that Bruce noticed: the scars on his body were gone. Almost; when he looked closely, there were unmistakable ridges in some areas that couldn't quite be hidden, patches of skin that pulled in suspicious ways. The rest, those that were minor enough to be easily hidden, had been painted over until no discoloration could be seen anymore.

Everything inside Bruce stopped. The room tilted, he lost the music to garbled sound and incoherency. Bruce's mind skipped several beats, needle scratching an old record louder than the pounding bass around him. And then he remembered that René was a performer, skilled in makeup artistry. This was his _job_. And he'd shown Bruce his scars. He hadn't hid them. Bruce had seen everything. He found himself gripping tightly to the metal railing leading back to an exit, trying to fight off visions of a ghost in René's place. It was perfectly natural that he could and _would_ hide his scars in public, Bruce chastised himself. 

But then there was the enigma of René's false identity. 

The world hadn't righted itself yet. Bruce gripped tight to the wall and watched René with every memory of the Joker painted in his mind. 

The fire didn't help matters. The moving light cast deep shadows once it past, outlining René's face in sharp angles and darkening the sockets around his eyes. Time moved in disjointed shivers, stuttering forward like a fantastical vision under a strobe light. The fires grew dimmer as their fuel ran out and René eventually caught and extinguished them with a smirk just as the music ended.

Applause and whistles filled the room again. René took a short bow but didn't linger on the stage very long. He moved offstage just as the assistants began to dash out to rearrange things for the next set, unhooking a different piece of rigging with attached handcuffs and bringing it down. Unlike the previous disappearance, René didn't reappear moments later.

Bruce stiffened. He couldn't lose René. If that was his show for the night and he stayed backstage.... Bruce would have to follow him out. And if he stayed late with the rest of the performers, that was going to be difficult. 

On some level, Bruce seriously suspected he was losing his sanity. His heart was beating fast, his adrenaline was up, and he was ready to stalk the man he'd had a fling of only several days with on the suspicion that might possibly _be the Joker_. The dead Joker. Which Bruce hadn't confirmed himself. _Shit_. He could slam his head into the wall he was so angry with himself. And uncertain. Doubt from every angle clawed him inside out, and Bruce knew there was only one way to alleviate it. He had to see this through. He had to find out. 

Minutes ticked by. Other performers came out to do their acts on the stage, or to wander off for a private session with a customer in one of the adjacent rooms. Bruce barely paid attention. He was too busy watching for René, but he paid enough attention to notice that everyone else who had disappeared backstage for a length of time had reappeared. All but René. It was looking more and more likely that the man had left for the night, probably through an employee entrance.

Bruce finally he broke down, cursing and making straight for the entrance. He'd been getting more and more wound up as the minutes passed by, and now René had a good lead on him. He was sure René hadn't seen him. Or wouldn’t have been able to recognize him, even if he had spotted him. Bruce pushed through the throng of people as fluidly as he could, not an easy feat for anyone, but he managed until he finally broke back out into the night. 

It was late but the evening crowd was now in full swing. Even in this area of town, club hoppers roamed the sidewalks and Bruce passed over each and every one of them, searching for René as he ran for the back, just in case. The employee entrance, like the smoking area off to the other side, was sectioned off from the main street, but Bruce vaulted the wall, nearly slipping in his expensive shoes. 

He found nothing. The place was deserted. 

Frustration as hot as fire coursed through him and he barely restrained himself from sinking his fist into the nearby poster board. A few deep breaths later, Bruce was back over the wall, making a fast pace for the lot down the block. 

Sirens suddenly filled the night - eerie, melancholy wails coming from every direction, echoing off of buildings. Far too many sirens for a local robbery or building fire. Traffic in the street in front of Bruce pulled over to let several squad cars pass as quickly as they could, all heading west. This close to the docks, the only things west of the neighborhood were warehouses, shipping companies, fisheries... and the bridges, tunnels, and ferries that connected Gotham to the mainland across the water.

A shout went up on the street. Other pedestrians pointed skywards. Bruce looked up and found a truly alarming cloud of smoke filling the sky to the west, far too big to be just a warehouse fire.

It had to be halfway across town from where he was. Bruce's quick pace turned into a flat out run for the lot. A deep suspicion settled into his gut. This could be connected. Whatever had happened, Bruce's plans to track down René had been tossed out the window. Unless he found the man along the way. Bruce gritted his teeth, retrieved his car from the valet, and sped out of the parking lot with tires screeching. 

They hadn't closed off roads this far out yet, but Bruce could see that traffic was about to get backed up, and quickly. He sped around cautious drivers as fast as he could manage, and in a sleek, black Mercedes it wasn't difficult, not until he got into the thick of it. 

And it was farther than he'd thought. At least a fifteen minute drive if the street had been clear, and it certainly no longer was. 

Traffic piled up and slowed to a crawl. Confusion and more than a bit of terror was in the air, thick enough that it could almost be tasted. Everyone had seen the smoke by this point, and could hear the sirens. Gotham's citizens had been through enough bad patches to justify having a mild streak of paranoia. No one wanted to be caught out on the streets if this was a sign of an impending gang war, mob battle, or skilled arsonists.

A few news helicopters flew past overhead, making their way towards the smoke. Bruce turned on the Mercedes' radio and tuned it to the frequencies he'd tried his best not to listen to for the past few years: the police ranges.

" _Code N, keep everyone clear of Vincefinkel bridge. We've got seven cases of 187 and 10-70._ "

" _We've got the bridge. Spread out and keep people away from the shoreline._ "

" _10-71?_ "

" _...jesus **fuck** , the **entire river**._ "

" _What do you mean?_ "

" _The **entire fucking river** is the 10-70._ "

Bruce glanced to the radio and then veered at the next intersection. He had to get close enough, but he had to get around this traffic. He couldn't afford to get stuck, so at the first available spot he found, he skidded the Mercedes into the curb and took the rest by foot. He cut across streets rather than keeping to the sidewalks, and found it at least fortunate that should anyone spot him running toward the shoreline, he wouldn't be recognized. 

The police had blocked traffic, but they hadn't had time to section off the access roads and walkways down to the docks, nor did they have time to spread their men out any wider than the bridge. Bruce didn't know if he had a chance of getting through, but as soon as he descended onto one of the docks, he was brought up short. He didn't have to. 

From there, Bruce could see everything. 

The police scanner hadn't been exaggerating. A truly massive amount of some flammable substance had been spilled across the water on either side of the bridge and set on fire. The amount would have had to be massive to be able to coat that large of a stretch of water and keep it burning for so long. The fire, however, wasn't the focal point.

The flames had been to draw attention to the bodies suspended from the bridge - seven human figures, hanging from their necks all in a neat row. Bruce was too far away to be able to make out the details, but the radio codes had made it clear; all of the figures were dead. This was a homicide case.

Bruce's heart sank. ...and yet at the very same time, a new set of doubts filtered into his mind. Though this scene had singularly _familiar_ quality to it, Bruce had just seen René at the club. That had been somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes ago. The police had been on this scene for at _least_ ten, possibly more. Anyone moving from Impact to the Vincefinkel bridge would have had a hell of a time stringing up these men and setting the river alight in just ten minutes. 

Bruce had no evidence that René had even left the club at all. There was simply no sign of him. Bruce's instincts had leapt at the notion he might be involved, but now he had serious doubts about whether he wasn't seeing evidence based on conclusions at which he'd already arrived. 

His shoulders dropped and the chill of the night air sweeping across the river bit into his chest, the light jacket doing nothing to soften its teeth. Bruce would find out who had done this. And who those seven men were.

* * *

Bruce woke early the next morning. 

GCPD's transmissions the night prior hadn't told him much more than he hadn't seen in person. Neither had the news, although that wasn't much of a surprise. They cited their stories from a distance far greater than he'd gotten, and though the rising flames lit along the dark stretch of river made a vibrant backdrop for the seven hanged men, they brought nothing new to the table. Bruce missed the days when he could just don his gear and find Gordon waiting ever so patiently on the county rooftop. However, he hadn't invested in all he had for nothing, and Bruce did manage to procure internal access to the precinct's database. He did, however, have to wait for the evidence to be filed into the system. 

It was the first thing he checked that morning, hunched over a laptop with the rising violet hues of the sun streaming through his wide windows. It would blind him soon if he remained in bed, but as soon as he checked the records, he couldn't bring himself to move. 

The hanged men had been identified. And through their identities a clear enough message had been sent. One that propelled Bruce into full wakefulness, tightening his chest and stealing the air from his lungs.

All were criminals in their own right and owned other criminals, too. All were leaders, dealers, the movers and shakers of their own particular poisons, but all had one very suspect trait in common. Four of the seven had taken up residence in the Narrows, set the streets up as their turf. The other three had moved in on surrounding areas - a strip of shore and the dank underbelly of a bridge now infamous as the Joker's recruiting grounds, a strip of derelict clubs in the warehouse district, another area notable for its once upon a time base for the Joker's followers, and, most surprising, a church. It wasn't the church itself, but the gathering of the homeless, the trade that went on there, that had also once been the Joker's territory until these men came along. 

If that weren't enough to tip them off, a single, very unsubtle, standard playing card found on one of the bodies was the cherry on top of the cake. 

GCPD had labelled the case a potential copycat killer. Yet even as the consideration crossed Bruce's mind, he fell into a dulled panic. It was not the kind of panic that sent people into flight. It was the kind of panic that left him as still as untroubled water inside, the kind of panic that made him move, sent him out of bed and dressing without consideration, every action quick and precise, plans forming as he went. Even though his hands trembled as he buttoned his shirt. 

By the time he was on the road to Arkham Asylum, his body was back under control. 

The hospital staff were very surprised to see Bruce Wayne back so soon, particularly as visits from their absentee patron were so extremely rare in the first place. The security staff let him into the building without a hitch once he flashed some identification, but put him in the general waiting room. Already short-staffed, the hospital was in a flurry of activity that morning. From overheard bits of conversation between nurses, doctors, and administrative employees running to and fro, Bruce learned that the GCPD had already come and gone and that many of the resident patients were disturbed. Word spread quickly among the residents, and after police had pulled and questioned a couple of them, whispers had spread through the walls and down the sterile white hallways.

The head receptionist popped into the waiting room just long enough to flash Bruce an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Wayne. Dr. Leland will be down to see you as soon as she has a moment. Can I get you a coffee while you wait...?"

Bruce gave her a winning smile, finding it easy to play his part with his heightened state of senses. "Yes, please. Thank you." And she was off again, tapping round the corner on her small heels and Bruce could count her progress in meters down the hall. He rose at once and, wary of his image on the surveillance system, began to move to the hall and back again, turning as though he were pacing in boredom, taking each turn a little farther. He glimpsed the same cameras down each end and made note of their blind spots, which were none. 

He was forced to wait for the doctor, but he did so with shoe tapping and nails digging into his palms, hoping that he wouldn't have to perform a break in that very night just to get what he wanted. 

The clerk came back with a subpar cup of coffee that had suffered from the morning's frenzy and disappeared back at her desk. It was another fifteen minutes before Dr. Leland came down, her footsteps echoing ominously on the floor tiles. Dark circles ringed her eyes and a lock of hair had been pulled free of the neat, clinical ponytail; the morning hadn't been easy on her, either.

"Mr. Wayne. I'm sorry, it's- ...it's not been a good day for an unscheduled visit. Just one emergency after another. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I thought about having my attorney contact you, but I figured you might like to see a friendlier face this morning, and from the looks of things that was probably a good call." Bruce glanced around and looked at her warmly. It helped offset the mention of lawyers. "It's not in concern with Arkham's practices, just details on one of your patients. The patient we spoke of last time. If the records aren't sealed, I'd like to ask to see what you can show me of the Joker's file." 

He knew this would come as something of a shock to Dr. Leland, even after the police had come and gone. Perhaps even more so because the police had come and gone. Bruce watched her slim eyebrows climb. 

"I'm afraid it's somewhat urgent," he added gently. "In light of recent events....it's become clear he might have made a threat against myself before he died. I'm doing a personal investigation into the matter."

Dr. Leland paled, even with Bruce trying to win her with soft words and a warm smile. "I... Have you talked to the police about this? I'm afraid that even if we still had all the files on-hand, patient confidentiality extends beyond the patient's deceased status, except in special instances with blood relatives. Patie-... Joker was never documented as having any family at all, or at least none that claimed him, and so his files were sealed except for the few research interviews he authorized with graduate students and medical specialists. The GCPD were just here this morning and collected a sizeable amount of information that might give possible leads on a case they are currently working on, and all of Joker's files were part of the subpoena. If you can open a case with them about a possible threat existing against you, they should be able to look into it with the materials they took."

"They will," Bruce assured her as though he'd already spoken with them, as though they were already aware of his supposed involvement in the case. He wrung his hands together and shifted his stance, shoulders bending, curling into himself as if the worry were weighing on him, and truly he didn't have to go far to pull off the act. "But for my own peace of mind, is there anything at all you can show me?" 

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Wayne. The disclosure agreement for the few unsealed records was limited to researchers only, and those looking into very specific research areas, not simply the curious who happened to have a foothold in academia or the medical field." The lines at the corners of her eyes deepened; it was only the beginning of the day and Dr. Leland already looked exhausted. "The best I can do for you is to show you the gravesite. The coroner who signed off on the autopsy, Ms. Townsend, is no longer with this hospital, but I could try to put you in contact with her if it would ease your mind at all."

Bruce shook his head. He already knew where it was and didn't want to tip her off. "No. No, that's alright. I'd rather not know where it is, honestly. I'd rather leave that part harder to imagine." He looked her in the eyes and saw that she truly did feel something for him. In spite of her tiredness, she was inclined to give him her sympathy, and Bruce must have made a very sympathetic picture just then. "Thank you, Dr. Leland. I'm sorry to have wasted your time. I hope the rest of the morning is...less stressful." 

He didn't know what he'd been thinking, coming here in person, asking for this. He _hadn't_ been thinking. These were the actions of a desperate man and Bruce was not prone to them. He had to clear his head. 

One thing remained clear to him. With or without Dr. Leland's help, he had to find out what had happened to the Joker before he'd died. If there was a copycat, he might have tried to make contact. 

Dr. Leland gave him a thin, but warm, smile. "Thank you. And I did mean what I said, the last time. I hope this doesn't discourage you from taking an interest in our work here, or feeling welcome. It just might be nice to have a touch more notice next time." She backed up as Bruce exited the waiting room, back into the hallway leading to the lobby. "I hope you have some luck with the police department, but I fear you might find them just as short-staffed as we are at the moment. What with the fire and the hangings last night, they seemed to be afraid they have a serial killer on the loose who's taking inspiration from some of our patients and former patients."

Bruce shrugged in defeat. "Sure sounds like." 

Just before he turned for the entryway, a young nurse rounded the reception desk behind them. She was pale and stricken, and it gave Bruce pause. 

"Doctor, you should see this." She gestured to one of the monitors and her voice came out flat. Bruce and Leland glanced to one another and they moved as one to take a look. She couldn't prevent him from that much and so he stood beside her as they rounded the desk to find a breaking newscast. The nurse turned up the volume. 

One very dour looking reporter stared into the camera and warned the audience that what they had just received a statement, one claiming to be authored by the Joker himself, that should be listened to with the utmost viewer discretion. He elaborated that though its source could not be verified, it contained details of the hangings privy only to the investigators on scene the night prior, and that it described details of a graphic nature meant to incite panic and disorder among the population. 

"Normally we wouldn't air footage of this nature uncut, but this statement was received with a number of threats against particular staff members and our operational buildings if it was not shown exactly as filmed. An executive decision has been made that, even if the tapes are authored by a copycat claiming to be the Joker, we cannot afford to dismiss the threats. The GCPD have been informed and are currently investigating the claims in this video. With that in mind, we're going to be playing the statement in a minute here. Please clear anyone from the area that you feel might be disturbed by this footage."

After a long, quiet moment, with nothing but blackness filling the TV screen, it crackled back to life. A hand moved away from the camera lens to reveal its owner in grainy, washed-out, home video quality. The figure was sitting on a wooden chair in a non-descript, grey room, walls completely bare except for stains or cracks here and there. Not an inch of skin was showing - the figure was clad entirely in tailored black clothing, boots, and gloves, but for the face. The face was a bestial, canid mask, made all the more terrifying for its expression. The muzzle was open slightly, showing fangs and a wolfish approximation of a grin that had been garishly outlined in crimson. Dark eyes stared out from behind the mask's eye holes, eerily familiar in their manic glint. The figure began to speak, slightly muffled from the mask, but easily recognizable for the grating, nasal tones.

"Good morning, Gothamites. I'm going to assume you've all seen the new swing set down by the river. Think of it as a second introduction - getting to know each other again, starting over from _scratch_. I've just cleaned the slate for our new beginning. Now, I know you're probably eager to meet me, maybe even send a housewarming gift, but I've been _thoughtful_. I've had a lot of time on my hands, so I went ahead and got all of you some presents. Lottery prizes, as you will, for trying your luck."

The figure leaned forward, shoulders hunched, hands pressed together in earnestness between his knees. "You know how everyone _loves_ cracker jacks, because they never know what prize they’re going to get? I've done you all one better than sticker packs and plastic whistles. There are vending machines all over Gotham City, thousands and thousands of them. Some of them now have prizes inside. You don't know until you plunk in your coins and see. You might get your very own, shiny new handgun. Or a frag grenade. Or something even better. Go on and try your luck, and remember - don't do anything I wouldn't do. Let your fantasies run wild. Now's your golden opportunity for an untraceable weapon to enact that revenge daydream you deeply cherish. Oh, and a word to the wise: don't open any of the machines for restocking or to check for prizes. You'll regret it."

"And now, a message for my dear unmoveable object. I hope this moves you. I waited for so long and never got as much as a visit." The figure pressed a gloved hand to his chest, over the heart. "That hurts, Bats, it really does. Maybe you were trying to let me go, but I think you lost yourself. Time to stop hiding away, feeling sorry for yourself. Come out and _play_. I'll be waiting for you. You remember what I told you, don't you, before you lost your temper and started throwing me around the room? Maybe you think the city doesn't need you anymore, but _I do_. And if it takes making the city need you again, well... I can't say I won't enjoy it."

Laughter filled the small room, echoing off of the bare walls. The figure leaned in again and turned off the camera. The TV screen transitioned back to the newsroom where the anchors were all eyeing one another, pale and nervous.

_Bats_

Bruce hadn't felt ice trickle down his back until that word was uttered. Now he couldn't get rid of it. It was the Joker. He knew it down to his bones. There was no mistaking that voice, so grating. This man didn't speak. His voice was dragged out of his core by the very force of his will. And he wanted Bruce. Bats. He wanted the Batman. Bruce swallowed and set his jaw, fighting a quiet sense of panic overcoming him from the ground up. He had to get out of there. 

Dr. Leland made a small sound beside him and Bruce turned, looked at her, and took a breath as though he'd been shocked. Which he was. "I hope for our sakes that really is a copycat," he said and turned to leave. She looked like she had her own doubts now. 

Bruce sped back to the city with little regard for traffic. Halfway there he got a call from Alfred who confirmed he'd seen it, too. Bruce told him his suspicions, that this was no copycat, and Alfred had to agree. 

René was all but forgotten in the flurry of plans Bruce put together that afternoon. He couldn't move until dark, but that didn't mean he couldn't work where he was. Following internal GCPD affairs, he found the Commissioner was stationing guards around as many public vending machines as they could, while bomb inspection teams discovered evidence of explosives hooked up to the casings of one after another. 

They wouldn't have nearly enough people to cover, or _find_ every machine, and Bruce could not help them. Batman, however, might. 

When it came time that he could do no more, when all he had left was to wait for nightfall, Bruce found his thoughts turning to René. And now he felt a certain guilt prick his chest. He'd suspected René of something he should not have, and now that the Joker was very real and alive again, he felt ashamed. 

The TV in the background blurred into a constant stream of noise and motion, with reporters giving updates on other notable news, but repetitively returning to the previous night's murders, the threatening tape and, now, reports of chaos around the city as citizens began finding weapons. A few had run off to use them, causing a spike of assaults, murders, and robberies, and a few had accidentally hurt themselves or others while handling what had been dumped into their hands. Others had tried to pry open vending machines, only for rigged explosives to go off, killing them and damaging the surrounding area. There wasn't an hour in the day when sirens couldn't be heard echoing through the Gotham streets, and the voices on the GCPD radios were getting increasingly strained.

Bruce's cell rang. The sound was almost lost in the ambient noise. René's number filled the screen.

He stared at it. It took three long rings for him to answer, their tone echoing through the empty room more jarringly than the television. 

Bruce brought the phone to his ear, feeling the cold sense of dread he'd carried with him all day settle somewhere in his chest. It wasn't René he was afraid of. And Bruce wasn't afraid of the Joker, per se. He was afraid of what the man was capable of. It would be ignorant not to be. Yet his heart still raced as the receiver pressed against his cheek. 

"René." His tone was too flat. "This isn't a good night."

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to-... is something wrong? You sound... well, not _terrible_. I'm not sure you could ever really sound terrible, but... upset." René's soft voice sounded faintly tinny through the receiver. Siren echoes could be heard off in the distance, along with a pattering of rain. He was outside somewhere, or close to a window. "I wanted to see if you were free tonight, or sometime soon, but it's alright if you aren’t."

There was a pause on the other end, a silence that was full of tension and unasked questions. "...I'd offer to be a sympathetic ear for whatever's going on, but I know how awkward that gets when you're a naturally private person. Still, offer stands if you ever want to take me up on it."

Bruce laughed it off for René's sake, drawing a hand down his face and grimacing the pain away. "Don't worry. It's not that serious." His voice sounded a little more human that time. "Just _work_ , that's all. And you know how crazy the city is right now. I can't make it tonight." Bruce sighed. "But I wish I could." He could picture René on the other end, on some sidewalk. With those sirens in the distance, the image was clear. Bruce felt an unexpected lurch in his gut. _Worry._ An old familiar pain came back to him, but this time there another dimension to it completely, and it wasn't Rachel's face he thought of. It was René's. "You shouldn't be on the street, you know." 

"I know." René sighed. The phone was muffled for a moment and there was a sound of something being slid shut. A window, or maybe a patio door. "Trust me, with the sort of jobs I've had to take that just let me scrape by, I'm very familiar with the hazards of living on the shady side of town. And knowing when the neighborhood tension levels are high. People are jumping at shadows right now and I'm not about to go and get myself shot. Can't blame a guy for wanting a little company, though."

Another pause. "...thanks for worrying about me. That's sweet of you. I don't suppose that means I get to see you again sometime soon? I really _would_ like the company, and you get the bonus of being able to check on me."

Bruce found himself honestly smiling. He felt a fleeting rush of protectiveness over this man. This man who bore some resemblance to the one who threatened the city, but who was otherwise so unlike him. It made Bruce ache. "Yes, sometime soon. And..." Bruce hesitated a moment, he hadn't meant to, but he wasn't sure how to say this with the seriousness he intended. And without offense. "...I don't know where you are, but if you want to get out of there, just call me. I mean it."

"Alright. How's this: I'll give you another call tomorrow and see if you're doing any better. If you are, we can make plans. If not... well, we'll get to talk a bit, at least, and then I'll call you the next day." René laughed on the other end of the phone, sounding embarrassed. "Or did I show my hand a bit too much? I'm not trying to chase you off by coming across as needy, I promise."

"No. No. None of that now." Bruce sat up and let himself be serious. "I like you. I may not know you. But I don't want to play the aloof singles game. You can call me. Whenever you want." One thing Bruce was tired of right now was uncertainty. He didn't like the sound of it on René's tongue. It had no place there, not after what they'd shared. Not while Bruce imagined what the Joker could level at them next and how very much he had to lose. 

"I'll take you up on that." René's response was unusually quiet and oddly solemn, the embarrassed humor from moments before slipping out of his voice. "I like you, too. And I'm hoping we can fix that whole not-knowing-each-other thing, gradually. I just know that won't happen if we both keep playing too hard to get, so..." Footsteps came through the receiver; René was pacing. "So I'm trying to stop being hard to get. Which is going to be tough, a tough habit to break, but I'm going to try. I don't want to lose this."

Bruce watched the sun sink below the horizon. It would be truly dark within the hour. 

"Same here. I just have some things to tie up first." The corner of Bruce's mouth lifted into a half-smile even while he knew René couldn't see it. "You call me if you need anything. Alright?" Bruce rose and moved to the hidden chamber of the penthouse. He knew René would hear it. He knew it sounded like he was letting the man go right now, but he had to. He didn't have time to wait. 

"Alright, likewise. I'll talk to you soon." The other end of the line went dead. Thankfully, René hadn't sounded put off by the dismissal. His voice had turned warmer at the end, even fond. One brief, reassuring comfort in a night that was going to be fraught with tension while Bruce revisited an old nightmare and tried to find answers.

His mission tonight came in two parts: one requiring as nondescript a set of clothing and car as he could manage, and the other...the Batman. 

By the time dusk had fallen over the city, Bruce was on his way back to Arkham, this time in a small, unmarked van, his gear in a backpack beside him and a face mask at the ready under his collar just in case. The institute was closed by this hour, and Bruce, with binoculars in hand and from a distance far outside the perimeter surveillance, made a slow sweep of the grounds. There was one truck parked in the lot, close to the door, carelessly occupying two spaces. The janitorial service, Bruce recognized from the remaining supplies in the truck's bed. They would not interrupt his plans if they kept to the building, but he made note of their presence. 

He parked the van in a grove of trees off a service road and began a small trek up the grounds, hugging the tree line and avoiding what cameras he saw high up on lamp posts. It would have been a beautiful little area had he not known what the building was. 

It took Bruce less than a minute to pick the lock at the cemetery gate, and he made sure to shut it behind him. Darting quickly over the grave markers, he moved on silent feet until he found the one he wanted. Far off in the corner, under a large maple, one small plaque read "0801".

The plot was nondescript, generic. Some of the other graves had flowers left by loved ones or old friends, or perhaps some of the staff members who had cared about that patient - not every resident at Arkham was intractable, and the building hadn't always been primarily a repository of the criminals who were considered too unstable for Blackgate. Joker's plot had an air of neglect about it, as if the groundkeepers found it too unsettling to want to remain close for anything but the most basic maintenance.

Digging was hard work, and unnerving in how time consuming it was. Bruce counted himself lucky that Arkham's security was concentrated almost entirely inside the building, more concerned with keeping patients contained and safe from themselves and the outside world than with would-be vandals and thrillseekers. After about an hour of digging, Bruce struck concrete. It was difficult to muffle the noise of breaking the outer encasement, but Bruce only needed a few more moments anyways.

In the cavity on the other side of the crumbling concrete slab, a small, dark sealed alloy box was nestled. Cremation remains.

He plucked it out and held it up. It, too, was nondescript but for a small engraving on its lid. 0801. That was all the Joker had been here, apparently. Bruce thought back to Dr. Leland and tried to imagine her calling him "The Joker". The image just wouldn't come. As unsettling as the designation had been, it would have fit in her mouth a lot better than the title the criminal had chosen for himself. 

Putting the subject out of his mind, Bruce began to shovel the dirt back in, slowly closing up the grave. He'd laid out all the dirt onto a wide tarp, and it proved helpful to funnel everything back into the ground. But more than that, it kept his work clean. There would be no bits of dirt mashed between the blades of grass when he was finished. He'd even meticulously cut out a long swath of grass, rolling it back until he could place it neatly into its proper place again. If anyone noticed the grave had been disturbed at all, it wouldn't be until they next mowed. 

With that, Bruce packed up his tools and made for the van. The janitors' truck was still there, and Bruce noted one single light on in the building's lonely halls. He left with Arkham none the wiser. 

He returned not to the penthouse, but to his base down at the docks. He hadn't opened it in months. Descending to its depths, hearing the low thrum of power coming to life, eerie florescent lights penetrating the pitch darkness, felt...a little like coming home shamefaced, expecting the reproachful but welcome arms of a parent who was not and had never been there. All he had was this bunker, but it didn't diminish the sensation. 

Without wasting any more time, Bruce moved to the desk, calling up the suit and setting up the tests he'd readied that day. He broke open the case of Patient 0801's ashes and carefully extracted enough bone shards to place inside two petri dishes. After mixing enough of a DNA hybridization solution onto it, Bruce heated the container. When enough time had passed, he introduced a second solution, one containing restriction enzymes to further separate the isolated DNA. He then moved to a basin he'd prepared earlier, thick with agarose gel and two electrodes on either side. Carefully, with a dropper he added the separated DNA to the negative end of the basin. It would take time for it to to be pulled to opposite end by the electric field, but once it had he would have a very clear picture of the DNA, sorted, and ready to be compared to that he'd already taken off the Joker long ago. 

He had an hour to get Batman ready while he waited. 

An hour that seemed to take forever. There was plenty of work to be done, checking over the suit and equipment. The grappling guns had to be dismantled and cleaned. The Tumbler needed basic, quick maintenance to get it roadworthy again. Still, Bruce found himself glancing over at the desk more often than not, wondering whether the results were comparable yet. Whether he wanted the DNA to match.  
Whether he didn't.

He pulled the underbody mesh of the suit on first. He'd kept up his exercise routines out of habit, and maybe more than a touch of paranoia and sentimentality, and so the mesh still fit perfectly. Armored plates were locked into place next. The feeling that came over Bruce as the armor crept up to his neck was indescribable. 

A chime of the timer interrupted Bruce's thoughts. Heart racing and a weight settling into the pit of his stomach, Bruce strode across the room and seated himself at the computer, navigating through the files to bring up the old data he'd compiled on the Joker. An image of a previous DNA test filled one monitor screen. Bruce glanced down at the basin with the sorted DNA.

It didn't match. Whoever had been cremated and buried in the plot assigned to Patient 0801, it hadn't been the Joker.

It was, in fact, so far from a match that Bruce pulled up chart after chart to see just what he was missing. From the slides he was seeing, it wasn't even human. Setting the computer to search and match the sequence itself, he sat back. Seconds later it had found no exact matches, but it was able to confirm that Bruce's suspicion had been correct. The bone fragments in that case had been feline. A cat. 

Idly, he wondered if that meant the Joker was on his second life, and as soon as he'd thought it, Bruce knew that's what the Joker had meant him to think. He screwed his eyes shut and grimaced, pushing the chair back and sweeping to his feet. He pulled on the cowl and readied the Tumbler. 

When he took to the streets, he followed the docks, keeping clear of the roads and out of the eyes of traffic and pedestrians. It was a longer drive, but worth it. He didn't need the city declaring Batman had returned just yet. Upon reaching his destination, he hid the Tumbler away in a construction zone under a bridge near the water, and then Bruce, no, _Batman_ , took to the sky. 

It hadn't been until then that he really felt as he had before. It was the wind rushing past, chilling his face, exhilarating, the city sparkling and beautiful below. Even the gritty parts. He flew, catching the currents and veering through skyscrapers when he needed to, all the way to Gordon's old precinct. 

There was no familiar figure waiting on the rooftop, but why would there be? Gordon was Commissioner now, and though he may be hoping Batman might return, the dark knight had been gone for a very long time. So instead, Bruce dialed his number, and let the line drop as soon as he heard the pick-up tone. Gordon would suspect, and Bruce didn't dare turn on the old signal, not when it would send others. 

Retreating into the shadows, he waited. 

A good number of minutes later, a key scraped in the lock of the metal door that led onto the rooftop. Gordon slipped through, closing the door behind him. He fished through the pockets of his coat and produced a cigarette and a lighter. A small flame briefly illuminated his face and confirmed his identity.

Gordon strolled forwards carefully, eyes searching the shadows. He knew it was in vain; he wouldn't be able to spot Batman if he was there and didn't want to be seen. But he was _hoping_. Hoping that the mysterious call had meant something. And simultaneously dreading what that meant about their current situation.

Bruce watched, feeling at once the urgency of it all and again caught up in the surreal nostalgia of their time on this rooftop. 

It wasn't until Gordon's back was turned that he slipped out of the shadows. Not far. He could almost feel them clinging to him where he stood, and as soon as Gordon turned that extra forty five degrees, he confirmed it. 

The man jumped, so startled he lost his cigarette. Bruce wanted to smile. Gordon's eyes had gone wide and he'd looked incredibly comical for that brief moment, but his face wasn't the ashen shade that came with real terror. He'd been expecting Batman, but clearly he had not been expecting Batman. 

"It's him," Bruce growled low. 

"Jeezus, you're going to give me a heart attack one of these days." Gordon stomped out the lost cigarette, losing the edge of surprise but none of his alarm. "I was suspicious it might be. I had my men clean out Arkham's files, just in case. We didn't find anything out of the ordinary, or no more than expected in that place. The paperwork checked out, and the coroner's credentials as well, but she left town for a new job soon after the autopsy she signed off on. We haven't been able to get ahold of her. It wouldn't surprise me if she's gone. Changed identities, or killed to cover up loose ends."

"Can you get me a copy of those files?" Bruce asked. He didn't pace or shift like Gordon did and he knew it unnerved the man, but the least Bruce gave him to work with, the better. "Knowing he faked his death is enough for now. I need to know who he might be in contact with, where he might be living. These killings may have been orchestrated to send the message of a turf war, but I don't believe that's the Joker's endgame. He very likely hasn't moved back into the Narrows at all."

Gordon sighed through his nose. One hand jammed itself into his coat pocket, while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. "...yeah. I can get you copies, but it's going to take some time. The Arkham materials have been divided up so that we could analyze the material more quickly, so they're currently in several places, and this is high-profile. I'll need at least a day to be able to get copies of everything, and that's with working quickly and hoping no one asks too many questions about why copies are needed for files that aren't currently evidence."

Gordon paused and took a moment to study Batman in silence. "Maybe the rest of the force didn't miss having you around, but I did. It's good to see you again, present circumstances nonwithstanding. I feel better knowing you're still out there."

Bruce didn't know how to respond to that, but it touched him. He would have liked to thank Gordon, but even a warm smile and a heartfelt handshake wouldn't convey what he wanted to.  
"I'm never far," was all he could say in the end. Even though his voice hadn't changed, Bruce felt certain Gordon heard the gratitude in it. "Tomorrow, then." 

With that Bruce stepped back and Batman was gone in a flurry of cape and shadow before Gordon's very eyes. Perhaps a first. He wondered as he glided away, turning sharply round the building, whether Gordon had followed him, ran to into the shadow and found nothing but edge of the rooftop. 

Batman watched over the city that night. Gordon's officers still had the Joker's cracker jack game on their hands, and Bruce was sure Batman had been seen helping them at least once, but the Joker himself never showed his face.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Bruce slept as long as he dared, but the moment he opened his eyes, he was awake. It was difficult to say whether he felt rested. More like he'd simply passed out after staying up all night. He considered it a small miracle he'd fallen asleep at all, that his mind had let him. 

He started the coffee early and kept it going all day as he reviewed internal GCPD reports of the night prior. 

The Batman had indeed been spotted, not only by police, but onlookers as well. He was all over the news with less than fifteen seconds of cell phone recorded video footage, but it was enough to spark a firestorm in the media. 

Still, no real new developments seemed forthcoming. The police were still working around the clock to nullify Joker's weapon-dispending vending machines and the explosives that had been rigged into them. More forces had been called into the Narrows to keep the peace as the deaths of notable criminal leaders shook up the power dynamics of that and surrounding neighborhoods, with people reacting out of fear or greed and trying to capture a bit of security for themselves again. Several arrests had been made, but only for secondary crimes. There were still no listed primary suspects for who lay behind the latest crime spree. The GCPD was still indicating that the bridge hangings, video recording, and current chaos were the result of a copycat.

The sun was dipping low against the horizon, nearly set, when Bruce's cell rang. René's number again.

He sighed audibly before he picked it up. He'd been hoping to meet René in the daylight hours if they were going to meet at all, but he supposed he'd known better. He and René hadn't met during work hours once. Until now, it hadn't been an inconvenience. Bruce sat back at his desk, in the bunker of all places, and began the call. 

"René." 

"Hey. How're you holding up? You didn't sound the best, yesterday. Honestly, you sound kinda tired today, too." Traffic could be heard distantly in the background, and wind. Whatever reassurances René had given yesterday, it sounded like he was outside again. If not on the street, then out on a balcony somewhere. "Not sleep well?"

"Slept ok. Just a long night." Bruce made himself laugh. "You're beginning to see why my dating life has been so chronically horrid." Bruce shifted, unable to let go of René's background. "Doesn't mean I haven't been keeping up with the news though. Tell me you're not anywhere near the Narrows." 

René laughed in return. "No, no. I've not made it big in the theater or fashion worlds yet, but I'm not on such hard times that I'd have to slum it _that_ bad. I'm closer to the theater district. Saves on money, because I can walk or take a quick jaunt on public transit for most of the places I need to go. Good for networking. Local landlords are used to penniless theater folk and cut me a deal due to my _charming accent_. Still not the best part of town, but it's not the East End or the Bowery, either."

Bruce calmed somewhat. He was willing to let the topic go at that. "It's good to hear from you", he said, but softly enough that René would know their chances of a meeting tonight weren't high. "I hope your day's been better than mine." Half of Bruce meant it, the other half grasped for something to tell René. Anything. He didn't enjoy lying to the man. And funny how it wasn't the lying itself that bothered Bruce, but the knowledge that with every omission the distance between them expanded. Before they'd barely had a chance to close it. Apart from their brief encounters, those times when there seemed there was no distance between them at all, without ever having to speak a word. 

"Somewhat. I had to cancel working at my other job last night, due to... well, you know. Everything that's going on. Which was disappointing, but necessary. This is the first I've ever had to cancel, so I think people were pretty understanding, especially given the circumstances. I don't think a lot of people were intent on going out last night anyways." 

Footsteps echoed off of walls; René _was_ outside, somewhere, not just on a balcony. Walking. "I keep hoping things will really click into place with my actual profession, but... the right contact just hasn't been made yet. I'll get there eventually. I don't ever give up, once I want something, so it's just a matter of time and persistence. I'm working on it." His voice turned warmer, softer. Enough that Bruce had to listen closely to hear him about the ambient noise. "I don't suppose you think you'd have time to meet later tonight? Nothing too long. Just enough to see each other and unwind a bit. If you're not too tired or busy."

Bruce hung his head. He'd gone from being happy with René's steady ambition to a new wave of guilt, and he knew René could hear it in the silence. "I'm sorry. I can't make it out tonight. Even late. It's going to be another all-nighter." Bruce sighed into the phone and set his head back against the chair, watching the screens in front of him, pouring in news from Gotham's networks, GCPD, whatever he could find, but they washed together in a mess when he wasn't focusing. "I wish I could."

"It's alright. It does count for something that you want to, and it's a welcome relief you've got my work ethic," René laughed quietly, doing his best to try to clear the guilt from the air. "It's nice to get to see pieces of _you_ , instead of the media tropes. Believe me, I've met and worked with some big players in the past. Everyone is different when they're in front of the cameras or putting on a show than how they are in private, and more different still when they start to let their guard down bit by bit. I like your real face much better than your playboy one."

René sighed. "I suppose I should let you go off and get working, if it's looking like an all-nighter. Give me a call if you change your mind?"

Bruce warmed at that. "I will. One way or another, you'll hear from me. Even if it's tomorrow." He heard René express his amusement at that before they said their goodbyes. When the call ended, Bruce set his phone down on the desk and fell back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. It was bleak, grey, lifeless. This place felt like a cave. He'd made that association before, but it had never bothered him until now. 

Bruce had once thought Rachel had been his chance at a real life, one outside of Batman. Now...he potentially had that again. And here he was with the Joker risen like a demon out of hell right when he'd found it. Picturing René and the Joker together even in a sentence had Bruce pressing his palms to the back of his eyes, trying to clear his head, trying to forget that image. 

He had to get ready. And so for the second night in so many years, he became Batman again. 

This time when he flew off through the city, he had to push thoughts of René from his mind. 

Gordon was waiting for him on the rooftop of the GCPD Headquarters. A sizeable folder in a sealed plastic sleeve was tucked under one arm, and dark circles were apparent under his eyes even in the low lighting. He nursed a metal thermos of coffee, glancing at his watch every now and then and looking out at the city below. The night had only just begun, and despite the fearful news casts, Gotham nightlife was bustling. The city had had a crime problem for decades, but that never seemed to deter the citizens from getting on with living.

Gordon jumped again when Batman materialized behind him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you enjoyed doing that," he teased, but halfheartedly. He was too fatigued, and his following chuckle came out slightly flat. "I don't know whether to laud or chastise you. You got caught on camera, which has put the scare into a number of criminals, from what I hear from our informants, but that's also just what the man on the tape wanted. I'm hoping you can help us find him and close this quickly. We don't need this guy feeling _encouraged_."

"Trust me, I'm aware." Bruce glanced to the file folder in Gordon's arms and the Commissioner handed it over. He took it gladly, undoing the sleeve and pulling it out for a cursory glance. "This is everything they gave you?" 

Gordon nodded, and indeed it looked to be. Along with multiple documents were DVDs marked with dates and titled simply P. 0801. He put them back in the folder and rezipped the sleeve. 

"Thank you, Commissioner." Bruce met Gordon's eyes and wondered how the man saw him, wondered just where the balance was between unnerving and sympathetic, friend or mystery. 

"Be careful with those. I don't need to tell you how much fire we'd come under if word got out that sensitive files got leaked from our records. It wouldn't even matter whose files. The press would spin it and have a field day, and it'd be that much more difficult for us to obtain and process evidence." Gordon's mouth narrowed in displeasure. "I want you to let me know as soon as you've figured something out. Anything. I need to know for certain whether we're looking for a fan of Joker's work, or whether the man somehow managed to cheat death."

Bruce nodded. "I will. And don't worry, you'll get them back clean." Bruce was about to elaborate on his earlier position that it was definitely the Joker on their hands when he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairwell. Without Batman's hearing, Gordon had been none the wiser until his dark friend looked. The Commissioner spun around just as the handle turned and Officer Ramirez stepped through the door.   
She raised her eyebrows at the Commissioner's stricken face, but when he looked behind him, there was nothing there but the Gotham cityscape.

* * *

The trip back to the warehouse was more than a little tense. Bruce could feel his pulse racing, and his focus contracting down to the plastic-encased folder and the data it might contain. Without any current leads on the Joker's whereabouts, anything might help. Faking his own death, and going so far as to replace the crematory remains with those of a cat, suggested that Joker had been planning and preparing for this escape and resurfacing for some time. It was very possible he'd let clues slip during some of the psychiatrist interviews, or that something crucial had been observed about his behavior by the hospital staff. 

Bruce only hoped he'd have time to find what he was looking for. The sense of urgency gnawed at him as he descended into his lair, so much so that he feared he'd be too rushed if he didn't clear his mind. There was no telling how long the Joker would sit back and watch his little game unfold, how long it would take him to decide he'd done enough, or get bored, move on to some new little horror to set loose on the streets. 

Bruce pulled off his cape and cowl as he moved to the desk, mentally schooling himself into this moment and only this moment, constricting his world down to this lair, the computer in front of him, the file in his hand. He opened it. 

Gordon had organized it by file type. Session recordings. The doctors' analysis of each session written up afterward. Yearly reviews. Incident reports. Reports on the patient's interaction with other patients. Some were very thorough, others were barely more than three lines - the patient's history, for example. That did not, however, dissuade the doctors from speculating. 

Bruce began to lay it all out in front of him, piece by piece. 

The commentary was a mix of horror, fascination, and cold detachment. Speculation was written as if observing an animal in the wild, or perhaps something less than an animal - animals at least had a tendency to be anthropomorphized, to be given human emotions and reasoning via projection in the attempt to understand their behavior. Several dozen suggested diagnoses were listed, but few with any finality. Joker was an enigma, showing signs of several overlapped mental illnesses and behavioral quirks, but so thoroughly meshed together and defying cookie-cutter stereotypes of the diseases that none of the doctors had settled for any one listing of disorders.

One last report on Joker's violent behavior with another patient, on a particular date, made reference to abnormalities in the paralimbic system of the brain, as viewable in P. 0801's medical files. Bruce moved to that set of documents, intent on laying it out close to the behavior reports for quick reference.

The photos that stared back at him as soon as he opened the medical folder were eerily familiar. Scarring stretched up from either corner of the man's mouth, his eyes were shadowed, and his hair was a wild brown tangle, but without his warpaint, Joker's resemblance to René was uncanny.

Bruce was taken aback. He had to move away, sit back from the photos because the world had just contracted in a way it shouldn't have. And then he got real close, nose only inches from the photograph. There was no question of its quality. In dull fluorescent lighting, the Joker's face looked pallid, but not lifeless. He'd hidden his face away in garish makeup for so long, Bruce could hardly recognize him... 

Transposing blond hair and wiping away the scars, Bruce would have been staring at René. 

He put a hand to his brow, closing his eyes. He felt like he was losing his mind. A deep, sickening, sinking feeling started somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and Bruce didn't want to acknowledge its existence. Not yet. He flipped away from that photograph. Back to the brain scans, but he couldn't focus on them. There were other photographs. He had to look through them. 

Past the scans, with light and dark areas highlighted in comparison with images of a typical brain response, were photographs from medical checkups... and for identification purposes. Joker appeared bored, or even resentful, in the various pictures of his face, shot at different angles. The file had a copy of his fingerprints, then moved onto other notable markings. There were no listings for tattoos, but the descriptions of scar markings created a sizeable list. One that was supplemented with photography. Series of images corresponded to the neat, prose descriptions: multiple scars from blades, with width, depth, and anatomical location. Notable fire scars, including a small patch over the back left trapezius. A knife mark that trailed over one hip, near the external oblique. Another notable mark near the left soleus. The list was impressive, but wouldn't have been as impactful without the photography that deciphered the medical jargon into concrete data.

Every last marking had a match on René's body. Markings that Bruce had seen very intimately.

He stared. He felt a wave of cold wash over him. It seeped into his skin, sinking deep into his bones and deeper still, threatening to encase his very core. 

Bruce couldn't move. He couldn't set them down. The photographs in his hand trembled, and he didn't care to stop it. He couldn't. Everything inside him shut down, like lights turning off one by one, until only a single incandescent bulb remained, swinging precariously above his head in this ghastly revelation. He wanted to shatter it. He wanted to stamp it out, but he could not turn away. 

Now that the revelation had hit, Bruce understood that it had been a long time coming. He hadn't known, but... but he'd never been so blind in his life. _Wilfully_ blind. 

With delicate care, his hand lowered the photographs back to the table in front of him. Bruce stood slowly. Autopilot. His body moved without direction. He glanced across the table, at all the materials he'd collected, all hoping to build some semblance of a structure to the Joker, to better _understand_ him so that Bruce could find him. All of it useless. 

His hands hit the table, sweeping wide, throwing the disks, the papers, the keyboard, everything into the air. He didn't know what he was doing. He was screaming with rage, but he couldn't hold it in. 

When it was done, he stood in a mess of the Joker, burning, but he couldn't move anymore. All he could do was breath. 

He had to move, some part of him still in control told him that. He had to plan. He didn't have enough time to break down. He had to take this new understanding, no matter what it was to him, and he had to use it. He could not allow himself to do anything less. 

So Bruce stood there and breathed. Over and over. In. Out. He willed himself calm, but he could not stop the trembling in his hands. After long minutes of this, he picked up the phone. 

René picked up on the third ring. Or, rather, the man who'd been _pretending_ to be René picked up. His smooth, higher-pitched voice sounded distinctly surprised. "...I have to say, after our talk earlier, I wasn't really expecting you to call back tonight. Did you get your work done quicker than you thought? Or are you just taking a break before diving back in?"

Bruce had to play this carefully. René would know Batman was looking for him. He would know Bruce had been alluding to his work, his _real_ work when he pretended to be referring to his work with Wayne Enterprises. Bruce could not tip him off. He had to pick up where they'd left off. Bruce sighed. "Taking a break. More or less." He ran his hand over his face and forced himself to be calm, to put in the right kind of pause that affected the stress of exhaustion, of failure, not anxiety. "I've run into a dead end, and there's nothing more I can do tonight. I just...need something to take my mind off everything." Show René that Bruce considered him an escape, so vastly separate from all things Joker. Bruce put a little more warmth in his voice. "That offer to meet up still on the table?"

A chair squealed against floorboards - the sound of someone abruptly sitting up. René was interested. "Of course. I don't really have anything else going on at the moment, so I can meet you wherever. We've both been a little strung out, so I'd prefer not to run the paparazzi gauntlet, if you don't mind. Do you want me to meet you at your place?"

"Yeah. That'd be fine," Bruce had expected as much, but took a moment to work out logistics. "I'll let the doorman know to expect you. You can take the elevator right up. I'll order us something to eat and...unwind." Bruce found that, like multiple times he'd played a part under stress before, he could fall into it. He could turn the other parts of his mind off just enough, as though they were behind a thick pane of glass, not forgotten, but separate. 

"Alright. I don't think traffic's too bad right now, but it always seems to take about a half hour to get anywhere in this city. Hopefully 30 to 40 minutes isn't too long of a wait." René sounded apologetic. Footsteps echoed off the walls; he was moving, already getting ready to leave wherever it was that he was holed up. "I'll see you in a bit." The line went dead.

Bruce lowered the phone from his ear and stared ahead, letting the world of his little cave sink into his vision. He could obscure the weight of it all with the details of this place, taking in familiar slate walls, the sense of quiet, of isolation. Isolation kept him safe, kept him strong. And he needed to be strong now. He needed to battle himself as much as the Joker. Because the Joker had tried to take Bruce. He'd tried to worm his way into Bruce's life... and Bruce didn't know why. If there was some culmination to this plot, he couldn't see it yet. 

_For fun_ , probably. Like a cat playing with a mouse. It could make sense, if Bruce thought of it that way. Batman had beaten him. In twisting their relationship, the Joker could put himself in control. In theory it made sense. Except it hadn't felt like that. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. He could make no conclusions in that regard. He didn't know the Joker's end game. 

And it begged the question of how he knew, how he found out Batman was Bruce Wayne in the first place. And Bruce had no idea. 

He didn't bother to strip out of the Batsuit. He'd need it for what was to come. 

Bruce made his way back to Wayne tower by the air, trying to calm his mind. 

Catching the air currents made for slower travel over longer distances. Bruce didn't have much time to prepare once he reached the penthouse, but he didn't need it. One call down to security was all it took to ensure Joker, as René, would be let in and allowed to take the elevator up. Alfred was already out, having previously booked the evening to go visit an old friend.

All that remained was to get out of sight, and wait.

After ten minutes of silence, the hum of the penthouse elevator broke the quiet, drawing nearer and nearer until the doors slid open. René stepped out, face as smooth and flawless as ever while he glanced back and forth as he moved into the room, looking for Bruce. Looking, and puzzled when he couldn't find Bruce waiting. Bruce could see the moment René suspected a trap - the way his shoulders dropped and he started backing up towards the elevator.

Bruce, _Batman_ , moved between it and the other man before René could blink. He'd had to stay close to do it, dimming the lights and hiding behind the great marble vase beside the doorway. 

Bruce saw René's eyes widen at the sight of him, but he didn't allow time for more reaction than that. Kicking out with one booted heel, Batman sent René flying back across the floor, sliding on the smooth tile as he hit. 

" _Game's over_ ," Bruce growled. 

René was surprised. Speechless, for a moment, until a hint of a smile touched his lips and slowly grew. He almost looked _embarrassed_ as he picked himself back up and got to his feet. His voice, when he finally managed to find it, abandoned René's dulcet tones for his natural ones. "...well, you caught on quicker than I thought you would, but that's what I get for winging it, I suppose. What gave it away? The way you kept staring, I was nearly certain a dozen times over that you'd figured it out already."

Bruce snarled, rage coiling within him so hot his vision blacked out everything that was not René. He sprang forward, not the confident, steady stride he'd been going for, but a brash and angry one. René, the Joker, whoever he was, tried to pull back but Batman was already there. He caught the man by the throat and nearly lifted him off the ground as he forced his head back. Bruce saw the man's teeth clench. He'd been expecting an answer, not this, but Bruce had no inclination to give him one. He swept René's feet out from under him and brought him down to the ground with a force that knocked the wind out of him. The sound of it was sickening, the way his back hit the marble, the way his skull echoed and the sound of the air leaving his lungs upon impact. 

Bruce could have killed him with that blow had it been any stronger, or had René been any taller. _René_. Bruce held fast and clawed with his other hand at the man's face, glove digging into flesh that wasn't flesh, pulling, ripping smooth latex away from marred skin. 

René wasn't in any shape to struggle. The blow to his head had been hard enough to make him see stars and scatter his thoughts into a confused, hazy jumble. He didn't need to think clearly for his survival instincts to kick in, however. His fingers curled around the edges of Bruce's gloved hands, trying to pry it away, but to little effect. Bruce's fury was lending him extra strength. Enough to bruise, nearly enough to crush. With that commanding his attention, René barely noted the pull against his skin as the latex detached. 

The man that stared up at Bruce after was some monstrous amalgamation of two. René had been shattered. The Joker looked out from behind his eyes, deep set scars showing through. Bruce pulled his hand away. He eased just enough pressure on the Joker's throat to let him breathe again. The man, for he looked like neither René nor the Joker Bruce had known now, opened his mouth and his chest heaved. His eyes took a second longer to come back into focus. Bruce felt himself sneer down at him, the reaction instinctual when his clear, _familiar_ eyes found Bruce. 

Bruce found he felt no pain now, only thick, boiling rage. It roiled under his skin, making his body taut, making him want to tear this man apart. " _Why_ ," he demanded. 

It took a moment for the man to draw himself together, pulling air into lungs, combining it with thoughts, forcing his vocal cords to work. More irritating still, he didn't seem afraid. The brown eyes looking back up at Bruce seemed _confused_ , curious. "I needed you. Wanted you-... look, I came out to _get_ you. You complete me, and I needed to find you, draw you out again. I just stumbled across you quicker than I expected. Or that playboy mask you wear, but you were underneath it."

Something about Bruce's rage, the snarl twisting his face, brought a spark of realization to the man's eyes. "...you're thinking it was a lie, is that it?"

Bruce recoiled. He brought himself up, still straddling the Joker, but he didn't want to be at all close to him. 

That was not what Bruce had expected. It brought him up noticeably short. He couldn't pull the ugly curl out of his lip as he watched the other man, but Bruce was stunned enough not to attack again.   
He didn't understand. "What do you _want_?"

The question seemed to stun the man in turn. He gaped at Bruce, then started to laugh, the sound made even harsher from the bruises forming across his throat. His hands slid up Bruce's arms, nearly catching on the edges of the armor plates. It was a fond motion, not the act of someone desperate for an escape. "Oh, poor Bruce. You must be unnerved if I'm having to repeat myself. _I came. To get. You._ No real surprise twists and turns, other than the fact I wasn't expecting to find you so quickly, or while both of us were playing at being someone else. You just seemed lost in your playboy role, so I thought I'd wake you up so I could see _you_ again, not just the bits you let slip."

Bruce grew taut. He couldn't take this. He looked at the Joker's hands on his arms and pulled away. He climbed to his feet and squared his stance, looking down at the man lying on the floor, ready should he try to kick out at Bruce. 

Bruce could feel his heart in his chest. He could feel the thrum of blood through his temples. 

"Bullshit." The word came quietly out of his mouth, but there was no less scorn in it than there had been before. He couldn't believe the Joker was using this tactic. It sent Bruce's head spinning, his world tilting. "It's over, Joker. You're going away for a very, very long time."

"I don't think so, _Batman_." Joker flashed him a brief grin that turned, suddenly, very serious and utterly, disconcertingly focused. He got back up to his feet for the third time, slightly unsteady from the concussion he'd weathered, and advanced on Bruce slowly. Slow enough to avoid another violent trip to the floor, or so he hoped. "I know who you are, now. You think they wouldn't come lock you away? You think I couldn't just escape again, given enough time, and come find you if you decided to run? And I somehow doubt you'd run. Your connection to Gotham runs too deep to want to stay away for the rest of your life."

Joker's tongue darted out briefly. It was the same movement Bruce had seen on René before, but now the tic had an endpoint, testing the scars gracing the corner of his mouth. He paused when he took one more step and Bruce tensed, a warning of impending violence. "...was I really that terrible? You seemed to enjoy things, even if you were pretending to be someone else most of the time." Joker's head tilted to look up at Bruce, then winced and squinted in pain; the concussion had hit harder than he'd thought.

Bruce's eyes narrowed. " _René_ wasn't that bad. _You_ are," he hissed. But the Joker was right. They were in a stalemate. So long as he knew who Batman was, Bruce couldn't drag him back to Arkham. Not unless he was willing to give himself up as well, should the Joker be willing to divulge his identity to the world. He wanted to screw his eyes shut and scream. He wanted to knock the Joker down again. He felt his fists clench. Still the Joker stood before him, as still as Batman had ever seen him, facing Bruce, waiting. It was so...so, _unlike_ him, that Bruce still couldn't find his footing. "You're going to tell me where the rest of those weapons are hidden. And you're going to do it now." 

"You're so certain my cover and I were completely unalike. Completely divorced from one another. Is it because you're wanting that to be true?" One thing _was_ certainly different, aside from the revealed scars and Joker's voice; René's eyes had been much softer. Joker's had an animalistic gleam, like a candle viewed from a distance in a dark space. "Quit changing the subject. Or is that your test? Are you trying to find out if I'm serious about this by seeing if you can make demands?"

Bruce met his eyes. His own were unforgiving. "Absolutely," he responded, his tone flat. "You claim there is no endgame, then _prove it_." 

It was utterly strange, how still they both were. He had never seen the Joker this focused before, this _serious_. It _looked_ like he was serious, but Bruce just couldn't believe it. The other shoe was about to drop, he was sure of it. 

Joker hesitated for a heartbeat. He was gauging Bruce just as closely as Bruce was him. Then his shoulders dropped slightly, that tongue darting out again. "You'll need to get paper unless you've got a good memory. There's no guarantee the machines haven't already had their prizes claimed, mind. And I'm not getting blamed if your welcoming gesture of smashing me into the floor ends up making me miss a couple."

Bruce studied him for a moment, then stepped forward and took his arm. He dragged the Joker through the entryway and into the expanse of the living room, shoving him down to a couch before he went rummaging through the drawers of a coffee table. He set a pen and stationary in front of the other man and stepped away. "Write it down." 

Joker had sunk his face into one hand once settled onto the couch, apparently disoriented. After a moment he refocused on the paper and pen that had been set in front of him and noted Bruce's retreat with a frown. He started filling the paper, pausing every now and again to think before continuing to write.

The list was massive, scrawled locations bleeding onto multiple pages. More than Joker could have managed by himself, even if he'd worked around the clock for several days. Eventually he paused, set the pen down, and slid the filled sheets across the table. "Happy now?"

"No." But Bruce took the paper and looked at it. He flipped the page and scanned through all of it. When he looked back up at the Joker, his eyes were no less forgiving and the Joker looked no less guarded, but he still projected that unsettling sense of...weariness? Bruce couldn't put his finger on it, but it made the man who was normally so manic, so expressive, become still. Bruce knew the Joker wouldn't like his next question, but this list almost demanded it. "Who are you working with?" 

"No one anymore." Bruce stared, and Joker stared back, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth before it vanished again into that curious flatness. "You really think I would have had a bunch of people stick valuable, tempting weaponry in a bunch of places, and then just let them leave to go tip off their friends to collect and resell the stuff, or add to their own stockpiles? A handful of people who helped with the bridge are out and about, but I never bothered with their names. They didn't care what I was going to do, just that they got paid."

Bruce scowled. He would have liked to put his hands to his head, but was well aware how ridiculous an image that would present. GCPD were either about to deal with several disappearances soon, probably from those low on the criminal underbelly, or the Joker was lying. It was impossible to tell with him. With anyone else, Bruce might have made an educated guess, but the Joker could have done it. Could have hired a half dozen men to set this up, and then offed them all. 

Bruce took out his phone, photographed the pages, and sent them securely to the Commissioner while the Joker watched. 

And he did watch, seemingly not upset in the slightest about having just been made to give up the information needed to unravel the crisis he'd kicked off. Joker didn't even glance at the pages. His eyes followed Bruce's movements and face almost obsessively. It was akin to being scrutinized by an apex predator in the zoo, one that hadn't been fed yet and was considering the visitors it could see through the viewing windows.

Except there was no glass between the two of them.

Joker got back to his feet and started wandering closer as Bruce was finishing the file transfer, eyes still locked on Bruce's face. 

Bruce tracked his movement until the Joker got too close then straightened to face the man, standing stock still until the Joker came right up to him. Bruce's face was shuttered, but the Joker's held an intensity to it. One that Bruce had glimpsed in René. But his shoulders were lowered, he was bent slightly into himself in a mannerism that was all the Joker's. There were still flecks of latex on his cheeks. His face seemed both sinister and, somehow, sincere. Bruce watched him warily. 

Another hint of a smile lifting one corner of Joker's mouth, only to vanish again. It almost seemed reflexive. The man slowed and finally stopped just short of Bruce, radiating tension. Watching for signs that Bruce was going to lash out again. "You got your locations. Now, if you're done throwing a tantrum about everything, we need to _talk_. Particularly considering I'm not going anywhere. You're angry I tricked you with a pretty face, _fine_. That was never part of the original plan, but I got lucky and just sort of... rolled with it." Joker made a dismissive hand gesture. "You can't exactly blame me for not wanting to let go. Finding you that quickly sort of put wrenches in all the gears."

Bruce listened, but he didn't relax. He gave the Joker nothing to indicate his relent except his silence, and again, Bruce thought how crazy it was that the Joker seemed, still, so serious, so...controlled. And he made all this sound like an accident. 

"How _did_ you find me?" Bruce whispered low. It didn't seem right to raise his voice, not when they were so close. Not when all he wanted to do was push this man away and he was barely restraining himself with every passing second. 

"Honestly, you found me first," Joker laughed quietly, and he grinned. "I was just looking for bait, someone high profile enough to lure you out of hiding. I just hit the jackpot when Gotham's most visible and infamous celebrity philanthropist decided to take a fancy to me. I was never planning on following through with anything until I saw the memento I left you when I kicked you that one time."

Bruce felt his heart stop. He wouldn't have believed it had he not remembered so clearly René's expression at the scar over his abdomen. It had thrown Bruce, being inexplicable at the time, but now it came crashing back to him. 

He should have known. All along, he'd seen the Joker in René and Bruce had thought it was _his own fancy_. 

Bruce grit his teeth. "And what did you _originally_ want with Batman?" Because he knew what the Joker would have done with Bruce Wayne now. He knew why René's eyes had swept the room that first night, why his attention caught on the sturdy lamp at Bruce's bedside table, at the letter opener on his desk. 

Joker's eyes lit up from within. "Everything. _Anything_. Whatever I could get. I would have settled for more games, more rounds of chasing each other through the city, but I got something better than that. I got _you_ , even if you were still wrapped up in that shell you put on when you pretend to be living. And more than that, because you picked me out of the crowd for a reason. I know I'm not wrong."

Joker shifted on his feet, as if he wanted to edge closer and knew that any approach would just provoke an attack from Bruce. "The way you kept staring at me. I kept thinking you _knew_ , but that wasn't it, was it? You'd gotten close enough before that a little paint didn't make much difference. You saw a resemblance, and that was enough to make you want me."

Bruce flushed. Even with the mask, he knew the Joker saw it. But his skin crawled at the very same time. He refused to move back, even as the Joker swayed closer, inches apart and then back again, Bruce's position unrelenting in its hostility. 

"I don't want you, Joker," Bruce hissed. "I may have wanted the likeness of you, but I _didn't...want...you_." With both hands to the Joker's chest, Bruce shoved him away. He tore off his mask, seeing no point to it now and swept his palms thorough his hair, tugging it in distraction, trying to find a way out of this. 

"You could have fooled me. Or did you really think that persona was so very different?" Joker swayed on his feet again, then glanced down at the floor with a frown. When he glanced up again, his body language shifted. His back and shoulders straightened out. A bit of the manic glint left his eyes and left his whole face looking softer, or as much as it could be with deep ravines torn into either side of his face. René's voice began pouring out of his mouth. "All I did was tone it down a bit, really."

"Don't!" Bruce snarled, coming at him again, rage boiling up inside him. It was so _easy_ for the Joker to switch, and he didn't want to see René again. He didn't want to see René _like this_. Bruce's hands found the lapels of the Joker's light jacket and spun him, shook him. He'd startled the man, that much was clear, but Bruce didn't let go. He bared his teeth in fury. "You think I can't tell? You think you can soften up and that'll just _erase_ what you've done?" 

"Which is what, exactly?" Joker's voice was still lighter. Shocked as he'd been that the change had prompted Bruce to attack, something in him lit up at being this close. At Bruce touching him, even if it was just clenched fists at his collar. Affection crept into Joker's expression, or as close to affection as obsession could get. 

Bruce felt his eyebrows climb. The expression of utter disbelief must have looked almost comical compared to what he'd been seconds ago. " _'Which is what?'_ You've got people killing each other on the streets in your name!" Bruce shouted. "And for what? To _find me_!? You tried to destroy this city the last time you were free. I lost friends to your _schemes_. I lost _people I loved_. And you what? You think I could ever love _you!?_ " 

Bruce's hands dropped. He backed away, horrified at the way the Joker was looking at him with such longing, with René's half marred face. 

A flash of anger passed across Joker's face, disappearing just as quickly and leaving that strange blankness in its place. "Last time just started out as a job, pure and simple. I wasn't counting on you being _this_ interesting. And quit trying to polish that pretense at a halo, you played just as dirty. You had no problem using policemen as fodder. You had no problem using some of your friends as bait. Pretty damn convincing bait, for a while. I started trying to get closer to Harvey before I realized he couldn't possibly be you. He was too boring, too much of a rigid thinker. All or nothing."

"How exactly was I supposed to get you to come out and start being who you are without a little motivation? The only thing I had to go off of was this idea that proved out before: you've built this identity for yourself, that you're Gotham's tortured savior." Joker licked his lips, began to advance again. "You disappeared into your socialite shell for _five years_. _Five years!_ I watched the news, waited to see if you'd try to check up on me, planned. I nearly gave up on everything at one point, on the thought that you might have kicked the bucket somehow. The only thing I had to go off of was that if I did something outrageous enough to grab your attention and make you think your city was threatened again, you'd stop _hiding_."

Bruce's eyes narrowed even farther. He could feel the lines sink between his brows, his face contorting so much suspicion and confusion it could have been pulled out of a comedy mask. He could not confront the Joker like this. The man's tune had changed so drastically that Bruce's head was still spinning. But if the Joker were to be believed, that meant there was one question left. 

Some of the lines between Bruce's eyes softened, fractionally, as he looked at the other man, readying himself. His shoulders fell. His fingers loosened. 

"And now that I'm not hiding anymore?"

Joker paused in front of him. Frustration was writ across his face, but strangely, it wasn't clear whether it was directed at Bruce, the circumstances, or himself. "...I don't know. I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I never planned this far ahead. I'd already been arranging things before running into you, and just-" His lip curled, and his hands flexed into claws before clenching into fists. "I was winging it, alright? I couldn't turn the opportunity down, once I found you, and then I sort of- ...I lost track of things. I had you, but you weren't _you_ , and I wanted to see that again, and it seemed a waste not to knock the dominoes over."

Bruce glared at that. " _A waste._ " But the Joker looked so defeated, standing there in the empty expanse of Bruce's living room, and he didn't look like either man Bruce, nor Batman, had known. Not just in appearance, but in spirit. 

Bruce's fists clenched and unclenched. He breathed. He thought over his options and they were limited. Letting the Joker go back to Arkham. Giving him over to Gordon. Keeping him here. Killing him where he stood. Bruce's thoughts turned in circles until he felt trapped by his own mind. 

Finally, Bruce looked up. "I want you to end this game."

"And what do you consider 'ending this game'? I'm not going back to Arkham." Joker's voice turned hard at the last. Disdainful. "Or some replica of it, letting you rig up some private cell to stick me in and forget about me. Not ever again."

Joker went quiet and curiously still again, stuck in some memory that had been summoned by mention of the hospital. All at once he came back to life again. "You're going to have to be specific. I'm normally good at predictions, but I can't always predict you. That's part of the draw, really."

"Whatever you had planned for this city, scrap it. No more bombs, no more kidnappings, no more robberies, no more cracker jack weapons. All of it. No more." A strange sense of calm was coming over Bruce. It enveloped him as though he were standing in a fog. It shouldn't have been there, but there it was all the same. "Can you do that?" 

Joker took a shaky breath. It was unnerving to see him like this - disoriented and uncertain, rather than full of mocking, narcissistic bravado. He looked through Bruce for a moment before meeting his eyes again. "I don't _plan_. Sometimes, but it's not a routine thing. I just... _do_ things. I get bored, it gets unbearable, and then I take whatever idea comes to mind just to make it all _stop_ for a while. I don't know what's going to happen, because I've never stopped before."

Bruce's frown deepened. It had been hard to say what he'd been expecting. He now knew the Joker had operated as René, and presumably held down a normal interaction with the world for short periods of time, but he'd had his projects on the side. _Bruce_ was his project. But it made one thing perfectly clear, threat or no threat. 

"Then I can't let you go." 

"I wasn't counting on you letting me _go_." Another flash of temper flared up. Joker seemed to forget any wariness, any possibility of violent retaliation. He slunk forward again, invading Bruce's personal space. "I didn't do all of this to wander around living some mundane existence and watch you from a distance. Keep me with you, or kill me, but I won't let you lock me away again."

"You don't get a choice," Bruce ground out and he swore he saw a flash of something - surprise? - in the Joker's expression before he gripped the man again. Joker fought back, immediate, wild, but Bruce had the advantage of a coffee table, tripping him up and sending the Joker to the floor. Brown eyes winced as his head was jostled roughly again and Bruce had him on his front before he could react. Bruce reached around his back and felt at his belt. The clink of metal sounded and a split second later the Joker's hands were cuffed. "Neither do I," Bruce said almost to himself.

Joker lost his lucidity to blind rage. He kicked out at Bruce, snapped at the arms that came too close, but all in vain. A second blow to the head had disoriented him more thoroughly than the first. His movements were too slow, too disorganized, his aim slightly off from blurred vision and confusion. Joker screamed as he was turned over and pinned against the floor, unable to retaliate.

Bruce lodged his knee into the man's back. His weight shifted to grab the cowl and cape off the table where he'd dropped them and refastened them over his suit. 

This wasn't going to be pleasant. Bruce knew that as soon as he pulled his phone out. It rang. And rang. And finally on the third a familiar voice picked up. The Joker squirmed and Bruce roughly re-centered his weight. 

"Gordon. I have him."

Joker went still at the sound. A split second later, he went completely berserk. It was difficult to tell whether it was rage, fear, or a mixture of the two. "I gave you everything, _everything_ that you wanted! After all the trouble I went for you, you ungrateful _bastard_." Bruce's knee had to hurt, the way it was digging into the man's spine, but he didn't seem to feel it in his desperation.

Bruce fought. Gordon shouted on the other end of the phone, asking where he was, what was going on, but Bruce hung up on him in the conflict. He did, however, manage to key in one last code to bring the Tumbler home. With that, Bruce grabbed the Joker and hauled the struggling man to his feet. 

The Joker tried to pull away, but Bruce held fast. He tried to kick out at Bruce behind him, but Bruce still held fast. He shoved the Joker forward, toward the doorway and the awaiting elevator. It nearly sent him to the ground and perhaps the Joker would have preferred that to Batman's force because he tried for it a second later, but still Bruce's grip wouldn't be broken. 

"I'm _not_ going back there, do you even know what they do to people? _Bruce?_ " Joker hissed, but for once, the edge of fear under the vicious tone was unmistakable. " _Research_. They can do whatever they want, stick you full of experimental drugs. Withhold medication. Withhold anything. Nobody _cares_. Not about the lost causes, you're just a number at that point. Test subject, an academic meal ticket."

" _Now_ you care. You had no trouble blowing people up on the streets," Bruce shot back. He struggled with his phone one last time, cutting out the surveillance feeds for the entire tower before dragging the Joker through the doorway, fighting the man every step of the way. They crashed into the wall, crunching plaster beneath them. The Joker dragged his feet against the ground, trying to catch anything as they passed the doors of the elevator, but it was no use. 

"What is it going to _take_ to get you to listen?" Joker pushed off from the elevator walls, shoving Bruce back into one of the panels with a smack of armor. He was pulling at the limits of what his body could take, straining muscles and tendons. The metal handcuffs bit into his flesh deep enough to cut skin, drops of blood slowly pattering to the floor. 

"I told you," Bruce growled, " _It's over_." 

They fought all the way down, dim light above their heads blinking and chiming with every floor they dropped. By the end of it, Bruce had his arms wrapped around the Joker in a full-bodied embrace to restrain him. He could jab with his elbows, but without any force. He could slam Bruce back, but it did no harm. Bruce was stuck to him, suffocating, and Bruce could feel every movement he made. He could feel every shift of muscle, every heaving breath. The Joker's loose hair tickled his cheek and Bruce had little choice but to take in his familiar scent. And still the man struggled until the doors opened and they spilled out into the lobby. 

"You don't care about _anything_? That I know who you are, that I know you better than anyone else can, than anyone else _ever will_?" Joker's breathing was ragged by now. He struggled every step of the way, heels sliding across the marble floor. "I got _out_ to find _you_. I tried to see what else I could do, whether other things would stop everything from being unbearable. For how long. You're what _works_. Bruce, _stop_!"

The Joker's words lanced him and Bruce's steps faltered. Somewhere his shields had been open and the Joker had honed in there and cut him without Bruce even being aware until it was done, and he felt it as surely as it had been a physical wound. He told himself he would not. He told himself the Joker's mouth was full of lies, and if not lies than truths twisted beyond recognition, and he would not be moved by them. 

At any moment they would be seen. The Joker had been causing such a commotion and Bruce's guards were going to round that corner. 

Bruce spun the man around, one hand at the Joker's throat and the other holding him fast. " _You're asking me to trust you_." And more. The Joker was asking far more than that. If Bruce did anything with him other than handing him off to the Commissioner, he was Bruce's responsibility. 

" _I am._ " Joker didn't look trustworthy. He looked manic, out of his mind, bright-eyed and fixated on Bruce in a way he'd never seen before. Not even from one of his star-struck stalkers, following Bruce around with gaunt, hungry expressions. They had been looking at illusions, their dreams projected on top of him. Joker was looking _into_ him, latching claws into his core and refusing to let go. "I'm asking you to give me a chance. Instead of tossing me back into that hellhole."

Bruce flinched. He knew the Joker saw it. Sirens rang out in the distance. He gritted his teeth. He couldn't do this. This was not René. There was no shred of René left in this man and still he pleaded with Bruce as though he'd been with him all along. If this was not a lie, if this was not the Joker's desperate attempts to deceive him and own him and consume him, then therein lay the true horror. 

"I can'--" but Bruce was cut off by the cry of another voice. 

" _Don't move! Stay where you are!_ " 

Bruce looked up to find two of his own security officers bent round the lobby corner, kneeling low, weapons raised, and using the polished stone for cover. The sirens grew deafening and there was movement out the double sets of glass doors beyond. Everything was awash in crimson hues, and then bright blue preceding the arrival of a half dozen squad cars, all following... the Tumbler.

"...you _idiot_ , what were you thinking?" Joker had glanced over his shoulder, just enough to have spotted a glimpse of the armored tank, the lights... and to put two and two together. Enough to also realize the figures they cut - Batman was easily recognizable, but turned around as he was and lacking his normal appearance, all the security guards would see was a cuffed blond man. "Back up. Back in the elevator."

Bruce hesitated. There was a commotion through the doors. Policemen came piling through, and they came prepared - full gear, armored plates already slamming into the ground one after another to create a barrier between them and the outside world. All had weapons drawn and aimed, but none would shoot an unknown hostage in the back to get the Batman. 

The moment Bruce heard Gordon's voice, he knew it wouldn't last. 

" _Stand down!_ We have you surrounded." Bruce wondered if he was the only one who could hear the uncertainty in the Commissioner's voice. Gordon could guess who the man in Batman's hands was. Bruce had told him. Bruce had brought them here. And if they hadn't come, then he would have taken the Joker to them.

Baleful brown eyes stared into him, willing Bruce back and to their escape. Bruce could do it. They would make it far enough for him to turn, get the Joker behind him, let his suit take the bullets. Bruce swallowed. 

"I can't." 

"Trust me." Joker's voice didn't change, but something about his expression did. The set of his mouth, the way his eyebrows drew together. Even with scars trailed up either cheek in a grotesque parody of a smile, he managed to look softer. More vulnerable. Like René. With the bruises ringing his throat, it brought back memories of exactly how the marks got there - and the puzzling question Bruce had kept asking, seeking out the nearly suicidal level of trust the blond had put in him.

Trust that had been there while Bruce thought he was a civilian, Bruce's rational mind tried to remind him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it would have been the same had he known who René was. He felt his face crumble, and he was sure he saw a spark in René's eyes, the _Joker_ , whoever this man was. 

Bruce took one step back. Gordon shouted. Adrenaline spiked in Bruce's body from his toes to his temple and in one swift motion he spun, putting his back to the police, the Joker in front of him, and rushed for the elevator. 

The police opened fire. Bullets whizzed past them. They were in the elevator, slammed into the back of it, but the doors weren't closing fast enough. Bruce jammed the panel and felt searing heat slam into his back before he pushed them both to the side. 

Bruce wasn't the only one surging with adrenaline. Joker's breathing was quick and shallow, and the man shivered in a rush of nerves when the elevator doors finally closed. Bullet holes riddled the rear panel of the elevator, and they could both hear shots bouncing off the metal doors of the ground floor. Joker's eyes turned to fix on the seam. They were safe for the moment, but that moment wasn't going to last. The police would pry the doors open soon enough.

"We need to get out of here. _Without_ anyone seeing my face like this, or it's going to make a lot of things very complicated down the line," Joker muttered. "You have a secret way out of here, or can you actually glide with two with that fancy cape of yours?"

Bruce wanted to answer. He wanted to tell the Joker to shut up. Madly, wanted to sink against him. But Bruce was sinking to the ground instead. A wretched sound escaped his open mouth and, funny enough, he registered the look of surprise on the Joker's face. Bruce's back was on fire. He felt like he'd been stabbed with one giant, heated poker. He couldn't tell if any of the bullets had made it through the suit's kevlar, but he'd definitely been hit. More than once. 

"Turn the key," Bruce rasped, throwing his head toward the key panel. "It'll take us to the penthouse. They'll think they can stop it from the desk, but it won't work." 

Joker shifted awkwardly and quickly complied, feeling behind himself with his bound hands, and the elevator shuddered into motion, rising quickly up through the floors. Once that was accomplished, his attention turned back to Bruce. Surprise was still evident on his face, but something more. Heated, keen interest - inappropriate, edging close to lustful. He moved around Bruce where he'd sunk to the floor, running a hand down his armored back. His fingertips came away slightly sticky. 

If his expression had been inappropriate, the moan Joker bit back was even more so. His thumb slid across stained fingers, fascinated with the texture. "The GCPD still uses hollow points, so you should be golden. Just a little nicked."

Bruce breathed ragged through his nose, but he forced himself up. With one hand braced against the wall, he reached out for the Joker. "Give me your hands." With darting eyes, the man did as he was asked, turning for Bruce to take hold of the cuffs. His fingers looked like they'd been dipped in watercolor, but Bruce ignored it, fishing the key out of his belt and undoing the lock. The cuffs sprang loose with a satisfying click and the Joker was turning - already Bruce could see the satisfaction flashing across his face, but as soon as he'd spun, Bruce grabbed the other hand and brought the metal loop over it again, sinking back into place in a flash. "There."

Joker's smile wavered in a flash of murderous irritation before the expression was smoothed over. "Kinky. Still don't trust me with my hands free, eh? What exactly do you think I'm going to do? Or is it an _aesthetic_ thing?" Joker's tongue darted out, teasing the corner of his mouth and vanishing. The affected mirth didn't quite reach the man's eyes. 

"Get used to it." Bruce ignored the Joker and watched the flashing light climb higher and higher until the doors before them chimed and opened. He grabbed the Joker by the arm, but winced at the first step, pain lancing through him again. Bruce grit his teeth and carried on, striding through the foyer, small signs of their earlier scuffle evident in the upturned vase, the smashed ivy planters against the far wall, the coffee table askew as they strode through the living room. 

They were trapped up here, but they wouldn't be alone forever. Eventually GCPD would override the elevator or break through the emergency locks in the stairwell. But Bruce had one last trick. He took out his phone again and dialed Lucius through the suit. "C'mon...." 

After two rings the man picked up. "Well well, looks like somebody's made it onto the news again." 

"I know. I need you to send me the Bat." 

Joker looked askance at him. "A Bat sending for another Bat. Poetic. Maybe jealousy inducing." His focus had gravitated sharply back to Bruce again. He ignored their surroundings, the debris, even the quiet audio of the phone that he could just barely hear, if not understand. After the momentary anger from being recuffed, Joker didn't even seem to care about the fact that he was still bound, or Bruce's implication that having his bodily freedom restricted was going to be a regular occurrence. His pupils were dilated enough that, had Bruce not known better, he might have suspected the Joker of being high. 

"Five minutes," said the tiny voice of Lucius in his ear, and then the call was over and silence reigned through the penthouse. But for their breathing. And the Joker wouldn't stop staring at him. 

Bruce hadn't meant to do this. He resisted the absurd impulse to explain that to the Joker. Surely the man knew, but when Bruce glanced up at him he got the strangest suspicion that he would have said that somewhere, deep down, Bruce had meant to do it. Had _wanted_ to do it from the very first moment he laid eyes on René. Had _missed_ him all along. 

Bruce frowned. 

Joker moved closer again. Enough to raise his cuffed hands, hooking fingertips around the edges of armor plates, trying to keep Bruce close even though he couldn't wrap himself around him. "...y'know, even if I suspected you were catching on early, I think I would have come anyways," he finally whispered. Quiet though it was, in the silence that had filled the Penthouse after Bruce ended his call, Joker's voice felt terribly loud. "I knew you were going to catch on as soon as I started being stupid, and it didn't even matter."

Bruce knew his face drew tight, brows coming together, mouth thinning, but the Joker still seemed as open as ever. "I can't do this. Not... _this_." Bruce's gloved fingers closed around the Joker's and plucked his hands away from the suit. They came away like claws, detaching only through force, trying to grip and cling to Bruce as long as they could. 

Bruce stepped away and winced again at the pain, nearly bending against it. 

"Why? Because I'm not pretty anymore?" Joker laughed, tilting to one side to peer up at Bruce in a manner that was almost childish. Cheeky. "Because I'm not softening the edges out a little? I don't think it's that. You kept looking at me like you wished I was someone else, you know. Which really hurt at the time, Bats, except I had a feeling I knew who you were wishing I was instead, which made it _better_."

"I think someone's having a crisis because they've run out of excuses and are having trouble processing their feelings." Joker flashed him another grin. "I can offer my services, if you like. I have some experience navigating that sort of thing. One good thing to come from several years stuck with a bunch of shrinks."

Bruce curled his lip in a snarl but he couldn't stop the color from rising to his face, conflicting spark of shame following the Joker's sharp intuition. He knew the man saw it - his eyes crinkled with delight. He'd never expected to have to answer for that particular fantasy, and Bruce bristled. He stalked away from the Joker, leaving him to gloat in the wake of Bruce's silence while he unlocked the doors to the roof and stepped out onto the large patio. 

Five minutes couldn't come quick enough. But as Bruce strained his eyes into the distance, over the glittering city lights, he saw it. A great hulking shape in the dark. Not a helicopter, there were no flashing lights, more like a wandering black hole against the backdrop of light pollution, heading toward them. 

Joker wandered out to join him. His eyes quickly trained on the shape. Bruce glanced back, just to make certain the man wasn't considering anything funny, and was struck by the change in the blond again, once Joker's attention had drifted away from him. He was both René and his criminal self, and neither - too soft-featured and missing the ominous greasepaint and manic, vicious grin, but too flatly expressionless and shadowed to be René. Joker watched the vehicle approach and made a clicking sound, tongue against teeth. "...so where _are_ we going? Your secret hideout? I'm going to guess you have one, just to store all your toys."

Again Bruce ignored him. There were two options ahead of them. The bunker at the docks, or the cave, and it was obvious which he should choose. If this went south, if the Joker got free, if his identity was revealed, if circumstances that couldn't be foreseen should happen, the police, and possibly even the Joker, would come to raid Wayne Manor. No one knew about the bunker, and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. 

As the great, hovering mass in the distance drew nearer, so did its form become more visible. Bruce always thought it resembled more of a giant insect than a bat, but Lucius disagreed. It made very little sound, even as it came in over their heads to land neatly upon the helicopter pad. Bruce took hold of the Joker's arm and pulled him into the passenger seat, trying to ignore his own stiff steps, the way his body wanted to tighten at every movement, but Bruce climbed in after him, wincing at the searing pain when his back hit the seat. But no sound escaped his mouth, and with the flick of a switch and his hands on the controls, the autopilot disengaged and they lifted into the air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken us a while to get to the comments. We will! In the meantime, have another chapter.

Joker's hands clenched tightly, but not from fear. His gaze had turned distracted again, gliding over the panels that were lit with a dim glow and glancing out through the tinted windows to look at the city lights sliding by below them. The novelty of it was short-lived, but for the impulse to touch, to see exactly what they little buttons, knobs, and levers could do. Tempting, but not enough to overrule good sense. Joker knew better than to sabotage their escape efforts. He didn't know what Bruce had in mind, what was going to come of this, but anything would be better than the alternative: rotting in Arkham, bored out of his mind.

The hum of the engine was quiet, even inside the cockpit. Quiet enough that Joker could hear Bruce's pained breathing, the slight hiss and catch of it. His attention was drawn back. "...you sound like you took more of a beating than I thought. Invincible body armor not so invincible, I guess."

Bruce stared ahead, ignoring him still. The city flew by beneath them and the bat's radar and ATC telemetry scrambling instruments were on point. Bruce opened a channel to monitor GCPD networks and there was no sign they'd been spotted by the authorities. It didn't take them long to reach the edges of the city, and not much longer than that before they were gliding effortlessly over long stretches of highway and dense groves of trees and sprawling landscapes. 

Bruce didn't fail to notice the way Joker kept looking at him, but still he ignored it. He didn't want to have anything to do with the man, not until he could get to safety - so he told himself - but even then he knew the situation wouldn't be resolved. Bruce had done exactly what he'd meant _not_ to do, and he didn't know why. One impulse, one brash and foolishly sentimental impulse, had him running from Gordon and now he was on his own. With this man beside him. 

It hadn't taken Joker long to figure out where they were going. Curiosity had crept back into his features, and he was hedging his bets on what, exactly, was going to happen. When the police broke into the Penthouse and found signs of struggle and Bruce Wayne missing, they'd start to put out a search for him. Wayne Manor would be at the top of the list, which meant either there were secrets inside the house itself, or on the property nearby.

The manor meant they were a good, long distance from the city, however. Which meant a good distance away from people, from the bustle and opportunities, from the streets and cubbyholes where you could find anything or lose yourself. Joker wasn't certain he was pleased about that, even if he had a prime distraction sitting beside him.

They only saw a glimpse of the manor, dark and impressive on its stately grounds even from their vantage point up in the sky. Bruce took them past it, nearly a mile north, over wooded lands opening up to a river that tumbled down over a short cliff face and collected to disappear into the woods again. 

Bruce turned them around when he found it, heading straight for the jagged rocks and the falling water. The Joker finally turned his eyes upon their path, and Bruce gave him no warning as he laid down a burst of speed. 

Joker didn't react. Or rather, he didn't react as Bruce might have expected anyone to. Anyone who didn't know that there was a narrow path through the falls would have assumed the worst, bracing with fear against what would likely prove to be a fatal crash. Joker didn't lean back, didn't splay his hands against the dashboard or side of the Bat to instinctively try to ward off damage from the impact. He leaned _forward_ , eyes glittering and a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

With a resounding crack, the waterfall engulfed their windshield, momentarily blinding them, but they were through. And alive. And very suddenly decelerating as Bruce turned on the Bat's headlights, illuminating in the distance a yawning cave. 

One by one, more lights burst to life, exposing more of the great underground cavity as they hovered slowly inside. A more fitting home for the Batman couldn't be imagined. Below them was solid, flat stone with a great metal track running into the water, _rising_ from the water, as they progressed, ready for them to descend. Beyond was a great expanse enclosed on all sides with jagged rock and a very high ceiling. It was difficult to tell with all the falling shadows whether there were offshoots to this room, other, smaller caverns in the depths of its corners, but it was obvious this was where the Batman worked. 

Up above the platform on which Bruce landed them, lay his extensive workstation. 

Joker started laughing, shoulders quivering silently at first before sound began escaping his throat, quickly turning into manic cackling that shook the man's entire frame. He buried his face in his hands, trying to stifle the noise, but to little avail. Their surroundings were simply too poetic, too _perfect_. It had something to do with the brooding, dramatic atmosphere of the cave, perfectly suited for the Bat's self-conception and particular brand of theatrics. Or perhaps the Hollywood cliché of lovers meeting in a secret, romantic hidden alcove behind a waterfall. 

Bruce gripped him by the arm and hauled him out of the bat, still doubled over, still shaking even when he was nearly thrown to the ground in Bruce's haste. Bruce couldn't drag him for very long. The pain in his back was too unbearable, but he did his best not to let it show. The Joker splashed through the last of the water as he staggered, and Bruce nearly did the same. Fleetingly he worried over his own state of physical ability should the Joker make a run for it even with the cuffs, but Bruce was too angry, too raw inside to try to head that tactic off before it crossed the Joker's mind. He climbed the stone walkway slowly, removing his cowl with halting movements as he raised his arms. The cape came next, and sure enough he found six neat holes punched through the fabric, all within a twelve inch diameter. 

Joker's laughter had finally stopped, the echoes dying. He was back to scrutinizing Bruce, ignoring the room's features in favor of the man beside him. Bruce was doing his best to disguise the pain he was in, but his best wasn't very robust at the moment; signs of strain could be seen in his face, and his movements were too close, too stilted. Joker leaned back once the cape came off, scanning over the area that had lain underneath the rips in the fabric. "I know you're still pissed at me and all, Bruce, but I'm going to hedge my bets that you can be a _reasonable_ kind of guy. You're in rough shape, and leaking, and it's in both of our best interests to fix the situation. Which you currently can't reach. If you can stop growling and glaring at me for a minute and show me where you keep your kit, I'll patch you up. Deal?"

Bruce huffed, making it up onto the platform of the workstation. The tension didn't ease from his shoulders, but they dropped. "Cabinet on the far right." He nodded with his head, not wanting to bend to get at it. 

Starting with the clasps and zip at his waist, Bruce began undoing the armor plates. He took off only what he had to, leaving his chest bare, but the gloves and the gauntlets on, not enjoying the feeling of vulnerability in front of this man. 

Joker came back after a moment of searching and nearly rolled his eyes at the display of obstinance. Bruce was still soaked in anger, jaw clenched and adopting the face of his alter-ego despite the lack of the cowl, and holding himself as rigidly as he could manage. Joker made a disapproving sound and sucked at one scarred corner of his mouth. "Are you going to sit down, or are you really wanting me to try to dig lead out of your back while tensing as hard as you can? It'll take longer and hurt more that way." He paused, and his eyes narrowed. "...you have some real self-punishment issues, you know."

Bruce moved to the chair, turning it before he sat. The movement was slow, and a little stiff, but he did try to relax the tension in his shoulders. He let the Joker approach without protest, but he gave no sign of encouragement either. 

Bruce's back must have been a series of welts and blood. He could feel it dripping down his spine, but even so he knew the Joker's original assessment hadn't been wrong. The kevlar had caught the bullets. He was sure none of them had penetrated his skin more than a millimeter, but the bruises they'd leave behind...those would stay with him for a week at least. 

Joker, miraculously, seemed to leave his nettling at that once Bruce complied in grudging silence. The first aid kit clicked when he unclasped the lid, and then Bruce felt the familiar sting of antiseptic on his back. Joker's touch was professional and practiced, methodological; he efficiently cleaned everything up, removed the tiny slivers of metal that had made it through the kevlar and barely punctured Bruce's skin, and moved on to applying ointment and bandages. 

"You've done this before," Bruce commented. That hadn't been what he'd meant to lead with, but a large part of him wanted to break this silence that he himself had imposed. He could feel the other man's hands pause at the statement, but Bruce continued before anything could come of it. "This doesn't mean I'm letting you go." 

"Now, why would I want you to let me go, after I've gone to so much _trouble_ to get here, hmm?" Bruce's head turned to catch a glimpse of him, and Joker flashed him a grin. "Which begs the question: what, exactly, is it that you're thinking about me, if it seems _logical_ to you that after all of this, that I'd want to run away?" The last bandage was pressed into place, and Joker flipped the top of the kit closed. The sound of impact echoed through the room.

Bruce turned then, finally, to meet him. "You're not going to get what you want." 

Bruce in truth didn't know what he was going to do with him. He could very well still hand him over to the police. What he'd done had been on a moment's impulse and no more. Bruce could check on him at Arkham. He could very well wind up in with the general criminal population in the state prison, depending on how his trial went. ...but Bruce wouldn't count on it. He couldn't keep the Joker here forever, either way. 

Joker ignored Bruce's statement. Something about the defensive, angry lines of Bruce's body resummoned a hint of a smile and the warm affection Bruce had glimpsed in the Penthouse. He knew better than to reach out and try to touch the brunette - he enjoyed pain, but Bruce was on a hair-trigger at the moment. Pushing him too hard could have the sort of consequences he wasn't looking for. 

Another moment of staring, and the criminal's affection flared up a notch higher, his smile widening. "You don't know how to react, do you."

"What do you think?" Bruce snapped. He knew the moment he said it he wasn't talking to this man as the Joker anymore. He wouldn't have believed the Joker capable of holding a conversation so normal before, but boundaries had been crossed, and it seemed this man was determined to make sure they remained crossed. Bruce rose to his feet, his back still throbbing, but he needed to stand for this. "Did you really think the moment I found out, I wouldn't turn you in?"

Joker was forced to look up in order to maintain eye contact, but he didn't back away. He understood that Bruce was angry; Bruce was often the embodiment of anger, and somehow that made it endearing rather than one more annoyance. "I wasn't really thinking that far ahead, but I knew it was a possibility. I started out with acceptable risks, but..."

Joker shrugged and laughed under his breath. "Things got a little out of hand. I had been hoping for more time."

Bruce's brows furrowed. The Joker was just so... blasé about it all. Like the whole thing had been... Bruce couldn't put a name to it, but he was ready to put his hands to his head and tear his hair out in frustration. If there was no goal, no meaning to any of this, then the Joker had just been doing it for fun. But that wasn't quite it either. Because he felt some kind of draw toward the Batman. There was obsession in his eyes and laced in his words, and the Joker was right, Bruce didn't know how to react to that. 

He took a deep breath. "You might want to start thinking about consequences pretty soon." Bruce reached out and took hold of his arm, moving the Joker in front of him to march up the path toward the west end. He didn't know what he was going to do with the man, but Bruce couldn't look at him anymore. 

Joker seemed to find Bruce's admonition absolutely hilarious. Laughter filled the small space, and mirth brought a flush to the man's cheeks, but he was strangely pliable. Instead of struggling every step of the way, as he had been in the Penthouse when it was clear Bruce was intending to turn him in, this time Bruce was able to lead him easily.

They turned a corner, reaching one of the small hallways branching off the main cave, and Bruce started to maneuver Joker towards the small cell he'd had built in case of emergencies. The madman still didn't fight; he leaned in towards Bruce and the hand on his arm in a way that was slightly unsettling, but even through the armored gloves, Bruce couldn't feel any tension. Joker wasn't intending to put up a struggle. Bruce got him inside the cell without fuss and locked the door, trying to ignore the way the man had turned around to stare at him while he was doing it.

Bruce left him there, knowing it wouldn't be for long, but he needed it. Until he reached the main cave again, and found that none of the dread that had been steadily pooling inside his stomach had dissipated. He finally allowed his body to slump, gloved hands running through his hair, wincing at the pain it caused, but needing the movement. 

He needed to clean the suit and patch it. He needed to _figure out what to do with the Joker_. 

Bruce pulled off his gloves and sat down at the desk, firing up the computer system. Batman was all over the news. There was no mention of the Joker apart from speculation on the unidentified man the Batman had been 'holding hostage'. And the speculations only went on from there - whether they were working together, whether there had been some kind of battle between them, whether the Joker had even returned at all and this wasn't all a ploy, the Batman finally snapping. Gordon had to be throwing a fit right now. 

Bruce turned it off. He went to retrieve the files he'd reviewed this morning. Their physical copies were still back at the bunker, but Bruce had had time to load digitals onto the system. 

The files themselves were overwhelming. Joker's years spent at Arkham hadn't been idle, either on his part or the part of the doctors. Aside from the medical data, the rest of the files were broken up into pieces: incident and infraction write-ups and listed punishments, recorded interviews in various forms, observational notes, test results, and, surprisingly, research proposals. Each section was larger than Bruce might have expected.

The sheer number of research proposals were unusual enough for Bruce to click into that portion of the files. What was immediately evident, based on the applicant letters, was that Joker must have been something of a well-known oddity among the professionals and students of the mental health world. Everyone wanted a chance to run tests, gather data points, conduct an interview, get some piece of the patient that was defying all attempts at a solid, standard diagnosis. Some of the proposals were painfully transparent; this wasn't real research for some of them, but curiosity, and a chance to collect a novelty experience for their professional resumes in order to advance in other places in the field.

It didn't look like the Joker had responded very well to those. Or any of them, really. Apart from one Dr. Harleen Quinzel, he was listed as "sporadic, uncommunicative, and uncooperative" toward any research. He was brash, dismissive, and occasionally violent with the other doctors, but the more Bruce looked through Dr. Quinzel's reports, the more he realized the Joker hadn't given her much either. He'd simply been... less harsh. And that was something of a puzzle, one that Bruce filed away in the back of his mind as he went on to the video files. 

The video he clicked into opened on Joker's now-familiar face, scrubbed clean and framed by a wavy tangle of brown hair. Dark circles were heavy underneath his flat, vaguely-resentful eyes, following the off-screen interviewer as they sat down.

"Well, I can see someone's unhappy today. We _had_ told you not to move. I hope the consequences will make you consider behaving next time. Arranging for transport to the scanner was expensive. You wasted a lot of people's time."

"No, that's the wrong perspective. You're under the impression that some things _aren't_."

"I think your nihilism isn't as extensive as you try to convince others it is, or you wouldn't be motivated by anything."

"Bookworm like you doesn't have enough brains to ever experience _boredom_?" Joker flashed the interviewer a grin that was more a feral baring of teeth than a pretense at friendliness. Anger was filling up his eyes, turning them from warm brown to glittering black, filled with promises of violence. "Doesn't matter if it's pointless or not. You need something to fill the time."

"No, there's more to it than that, I think. Dr. Quinzel's started to prove that. You can be motivated by more than the standard boredom and rage that makes most psychopaths tick. Speaking of." There was a pause, and a sound of paper's rustling. Several printed photographs were pushed across the table, enough that Joker could see them, but not reach them with the handcuffs chained to the table. "The Batman has been killed. You're not going to be seeing any more footage during your general media access anymore."

Joker's reaction was immediate and shocking. As his eyes settled on what must have been false photographic evidence, the blandly resentful mask dropped completely, his features contorting in what looked like pain and grief. _Shock_. His body jerked, the chains rattling against the bolted-down table while he tried to get at the photographs and pull them closer. His emotional fit lasted for a good several seconds before Joker's shoulders hunched defensively. His eyes were suspiciously red-rimmed as he looked back at his interviewer finally, glaring.

"I see you know where this is going. Good. Hopefully, this will be enough to motivate you, since solitary hasn't done the job. If you are more cooperative with the tests and questions we're giving you, and you make us believe you're actually answering truthfully this time, we'll start releasing materials to you. You won't get them, otherwise, or any other material on the Batman. You'll have to comply if you want anything. If you're good enough, we'll have some of the students go through the archives and get some older material for you to have. The news about the shootout. But you have to _comply_."

Bruce didn't expect the twinge in his gut as he closed the video, the Joker's face a crumbling mask of restraint and much, much more showing through its cracks. After Bruce pulled up and skimmed through several more videos, he could see where this was going. They'd found a weakness in the Joker, and that weakness had been _him_. They were relentless about it, too. The Joker's moods spiraled wildly with their continued provocations regarding the Batman's life and demise. All of them false. 

Occasionally, things became violent. Less occasionally, but deeply troubling, the physical instigation didn't start with the Joker, although he escalated it quickly. When he wasn't restrained. 

By the time Bruce had seen enough, two hours had passed and he was massaging his temples, trying to reconcile this man's life over the past half-decade with what he was now. Or what he appeared to be now, because Bruce was beginning to realize he did not know the breadth of the Joker's personality or motivations, even when the man claimed to have none beyond Batman himself. Had that been true all along? Had he shown up in Gotham when he'd heard about the Batman from the very start? Gordon had suspected as much from the beginning. Bruce had agreed, but there had been more at the time. The Joker had obviously made his life out of crime and a certain amount of anarchy, and he'd projected those messages into their battle for Harvey, for the media... 

Bruce had him now and all he could think was that he had to give the Joker back. But the thought of those recorded sessions made his skin crawl. 

Silence permeated the cave. The bats in the great cavern were silent, settled into their niches undisturbed. And so too, Bruce wondered if the Joker was. He rose from his seat, removing the gauntlets finally and dressing himself in a loose shirt, knowing he made the disconcerting appearance of Batman up to his waist and Bruce Wayne after that, but he made his way back to the Joker's cell. 

Joker was sprawled out on the cell's thin cot when Bruce arrived. The footsteps drawing closer down the hall hadn't been subtle, but Joker hadn't moved, hadn't risen to approach the cell door. Only his head turned, enough to watch Bruce's approach with an utterly neutral expression. His body language was at ease; he wasn't afraid. Either he thought Bruce wouldn't turn him in, or he was incapable of concern for a non-immediate threat. "Miss me?"

Bruce didn't rise to the bait. He stopped just short of the bars, taking the Joker in. That twinge in Bruce's gut hadn't gone away like he'd hoped it would, even when standing before this man and remembering what he'd done and how little he still valued the lives of others. Bruce knew that wouldn't change, no matter the wrongs that had been done to him. 

Bruce took a breath. "I'm taking you back. But not to Arkham." 

Joker's easy, relaxed expression abruptly hardened. "Back to where? You know as well as I do what would happen if you handed me over to the Commissioner. Or the Blackgate staff, or even an institution out of state. I'd get dumped back in Arkham, or somewhere exactly like it, neither of which is very appealing." 

Joker rolled off the cot and got to his feet, slouching towards the cell door. The movements, the subtle anger under his skin, those were both his own, but his face was still too soft to bring to mind a monster in warpaint. "So, what do you have in mind?"

"You don't know the kind of weight I can pull." The law wasn't supposed to work that way, but it did, and Bruce knew his influence and his backing could sway this man's treatment wherever he was placed. Even have him moved if it came to that. 

The Joker's eyes didn't change, but Bruce imagined he was being assessed in the very same way he was assessing the Joker. He could almost see the questions running through the man's mind. If that was true, where had Bruce been when he was in Arkham? Was his word worth anything? Did it even matter? Was Bruce bluffing? And something more, something that went deeper than these questions. 

Bruce felt like the other man was taking a microscope to his very soul. 

"I don't, but it wouldn't be sufficient. Not with me." Joker sounded confident, and a hard edge crept into his gravelly voice. "And that's not the sort of thing I want to have constitute the rest of my life. It's difficult enough to stave off boredom when you're not locked into a white box. If you're serious about that, Bats, I'd rather you just kill me and have done with everything. Or if you're still squeamish about your one little rule, just look the other way long enough for the job to get done."

"I'm not going to kill you, Joker. And life in prison isn't meant to be fun." Bruce swallowed and turned away, feeling more like he'd just flayed himself than the other man. He moved down to the workstation, locked it, and began to clean his suit. 

The night wasn't over yet, and he could still undo the damage he'd done with Gordon. It didn't matter. It wouldn't help his image that he'd run before, but Bruce frankly didn't give a damn about that at this point. It could, and very likely would, all go to hell the moment he turned the Joker over anyway. He'd spill Bruce's name and there would come an investigation. Bruce was meticulous about separating his life from the Batman's, but nothing was certain. It would still cripple much of his mobility. The only leverage he had over the Joker was his ability to hold sway over the Joker's judgment and care. And Bruce had meant it when he'd said that. 

He pulled the kevlar back on, above the bandages, wincing as it slid into place piece by piece, and donned the rest of the suit with haste before he returned to the Joker. 

Betrayal and rage filtered into Joker's features, leaving him bright-eyed and livid. "I asked you to trust me, and you agreed to it, you _took bullets for it_ , only to shove me in a cage for a few hours and change your mind again. You haven't actually listened to what I've had to say. You're too fixated on your narrow little conceptions of how you think things ought to be, how they work. Or maybe your ever-present guilt ate at you." 

Bruce reached for the keys to open the door and Joker visibly tensed, backing up and getting ready for a fight. "Don't do this. Bruce, I'm not joking, listen to me. I'm not going to survive in there, wherever it is you think you can have me sent. You will regret it."

Bruce clenched his jaw and unlocked the door, sliding it back as he moved inside. He might not have been in any shape to chase the Joker down had he been free, but Bruce was confident he could still subdue the man. And so he did. 

He came at the Joker with every bit of his usual speed, blocking out the pain, knowing it was about to get worse and readying for the impact. They collided, the Joker's hands going for his face, making claws. It was the only vulnerable part of Bruce available. But they slammed into the back wall, the Joker taking the brunt of the impact. 

Joker fought like an animal, ignoring as much pain as he could while he tried to fight his way out of Bruce's grip, out of the cell. He knew that Bruce would be unlikely to be swayed out of this decision again by sentimentality. The blows quickly got vicious, Joker refusing to be trapped and slipping free of Bruce's grasp again and again until Bruce turned equally violent. A blow to the side of Joker's head knocked him down to the floor, limp just long enough for Bruce to recuff his hands behind his back and get a firm hold.

Bruce had the Joker on his feet before the man could recover, forcing him forward and through the cell at a stumbling pace. Their terrain didn't help either, but he regained his balance quickly and fought Bruce all the way down to the awaiting aircraft. 

Bruce didn't like the way it felt, forcing this man along, but he did it. He shoved the Joker inside, lifting him bodily to do so, and used a second pair of cuffs to secure his hands to the ceiling before Bruce went around the other side. He expected the kick when it came, and although it nearly knocked him out of the bat, Bruce managed to catch the Joker's leg and restrain him.

Joker couldn't have looked more betrayed if Bruce _had_ decided to take him up on his offer to kill him. The earlier flat, placid calm was completely gone, eaten up until whatever madness dwelled at his core filled him up. He jerked against the bonds chaining him in place within the aircraft, a vivid bruise already beginning to darken at once temple where Bruce had hit him.

They were in the air moments later, moving swiftly toward the end of the cavern, away from the lights that dimmed and darkened one by one as they exited. The bat's headlights hit the waterfall and died as they broke through, going into stealth mode. 

Bruce took them higher and higher into the air, high enough to see that the police had in fact made their way to the newly rebuilt Wayne mansion. A small group of squad cars loitered about the driveway, and it looked like they'd run into a dead end with Alfred being away and the house empty. 

They flew on, unseen and unheard by the dark world below, and not for a moment did the Joker's eyes leave Bruce. It was almost a mirror image of their previous ride, but everything was different. Bruce couldn't shake the way guilt welling up in him across every mile, driven into him with the Joker's gaze.

Ducard's words came back to him then. _Sentiment would be his undoing._

Joker didn't need to say anything. Bruce could read every word clearly, without the need to transfer thought to waves of sound. Bruce had had doubts before about whether the Joker could feel, had anything deeper than pure psychopathy and sadism. He certainly hadn't empathized with any of the victims of his crimes, always seeming to have a flat, shallow, hollow spectrum of affect. The man's current behavior and the Arkham files put that theory to rest; whatever this obsession with him was, Joker had some limited emotional capacity, and all of it seemed to be centered on Bruce.

Joker's stare never abated, not even when Bruce started to bring the Bat into descent.

This was going to be fast, and Bruce didn't want it to be. 

He lowered them down onto the roof of the GCPD's central office, a gentle landing, but one he felt as solidly as a punch to the gut. Or maybe that was just the Joker's stare. Bruce killed the engine and, forcing himself not to hesitate, unlocked the Joker's hands from the ceiling and forced him out, following close behind. He didn't dare release his grip. 

Their feet hit concrete and the wind whipped up the Joker's hair, tangling it across his face. For a second, one little trick of the eye, his scars were gone, hidden beneath a tumble of fine curls. 

Joker immediately started to struggle again once they were out of the aircraft. He managed, just for a brief moment to slip out of Bruce's grasp. He'd darted, not back towards the aircraft as Bruce might have anticipated, but towards the low safety barrier that ringed the edge of the rooftop. He jerked to a halt when Bruce caught hold of him again, nearly losing his footing as his balance suddenly shifted. Joker bit back a snarl.

Bruce drew him back from the ledge with all his strength. His arms were wrapped around the Joker. His heart was pounding. He could feel the same through the other man's chest. Bruce wanted to scream at him, but nothing would come. He got the distinct impression the Joker felt the very same way. Small, wretched sounds came from his throat, but all were quieted just as quickly as Bruce dragged him toward the stairwell. 

With all his weight in three great strikes, Bruce kicked in the door. There wouldn't be much time, but he wasn't leaving the Joker out on the roof. With the extra set of cuffs, he wrestled the man down and latched him to the bottom of the handrail. He wouldn't be able to jump over. He wouldn't be able to get out onto the roof again. And most importantly, it wouldn't take the cops long to find him, not when Bruce gave them his location. 

All the fight seemed to go out of the man once Bruce locked him to the rail. His legs gave out, leaving him crouched on the floor, cuffed hands pulled up by the unmoving chain attached to the handrail. He was visibly shivering at that point, out of nerves instead of cold, his breathing shallow and rapid. Even so, Joker couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Bruce, the obsessive glint from earlier morphed into a desperation that knew no hope. Bruce was going to leave him here, Joker knew it, and hated him for it, and none of that hatred or anger made the slightest difference.

Bruce hesitated. His eyes lingered on the Joker and even though he willed himself to pull away, he couldn't. This man had taken so much from him, and then out of nowhere he'd come back and... he'd given Bruce something, this time, something utterly alien, that pulled inside of him, wanting to reclaim the connection it had had so briefly with this man. But Bruce stood. He tore it away. This had to be done, and he would regret this hesitation. He would regret letting the Joker see it. 

Bruce stepped back, catching one last glimpse of brown eyes and curling, scarred smile that should have diminished the frown beneath it, but didn't. He turned. 

There was nothing but silence behind him. Bruce felt the weight of eyes on his back every step back to the rooftop. The door closed behind him with a heavy sound, but it didn't bring an accompanying sense of closure. The night air didn't bring relief from the ominous, claustrophobic weight in Bruce's chest, either. The night was open all around him, peaceful and shimmering with the ethereal lights that painted Gotham into a beautiful gem of a city in the dark... and Bruce felt trapped.

The weight of his phone was heavy in the small belt pouch that carried it. Time seemed stretched as he pressed in the numbers that would connect him with Gordon.

The Commissioner's voice was a crack of sound against his ear, furious, confusion, desperation, all of it lay hidden beneath his words. " _Where the hell are you?? What happened?"_ Gordon knew it was him. The masked number would tell him as much. 

"You'll find the Joker in the top floor of the central office, handcuffed to the stairwell," Bruce told him calmly and then cut the line. He never did have answers for Gordon's questions, this time less than ever.

Bruce brought the bat to life and lifted into the air. Looking down below him, all he could see was the unearthly florescent glow of the open stairwell doorway. He tore his eyes away and made for the docks.

He had to hide what he could while he could.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few days were a media frenzy. Speculation about the Batman had been drawn back to the forefront of the public's attention by his reappearance and showdown with police. Drowning out talk of the Batman, however, was talk about the man he'd been seen holding onto coming out of the combination hotel/apartment building that was well-known to serve as Bruce Wayne's private residence on the penthouse level. Things reached an even more hysterical pitch once the GCPD released, for the first time, mug shots of the man known as the Joker without greasepaint partially obscuring his features.

Suddenly, pieces started sliding into place. A number of anonymous callers informed the news stations that this man, disguised, had been active at a particular and rather exclusive nightclub for months now, without incident. Another informant, along with numerous photos from Gotham's industrious paparazzi, confirmed that the man had been dating Bruce Wayne at least casually, although to what end, no one could say. Access to the Wayne funds and resources, or a high-profile murder to throw the city into chaos, were both favored theories.

Further information was sought from the police, who were being unusually tight-lipped about the case. No one knew yet how the Joker had managed to fake his own death and escape from a high-security mental institution. One police contact, who refused to be identified, confessed that they weren't getting much of anything out of the Joker since his arrest. He'd been refusing to cooperate with all questioning, even when a lawyer and a doctor from Arkham had been summoned. For the moment, he had been transferred to a cell in solitary at Blackgate - the GCPD were too nervous to hold him in the temporary cells at headquarters, and no one wanted to return him to Arkham to be held until the security had been double-checked.

In the coming weeks Joker would have to be formally charged and there would be a trial date set. With his silence and the media circus it was almost certain a trial would be inevitable. 

Bruce watched every passing day, waiting for news of his name to be linked with the Batman, but it had yet to come. GCPD investigators came to question him, and he'd played his part well enough - the shocked and scandalized billionaire, embracing a paranoid streak now that the man he'd been dating had revealed his true identity, if not his motives. Paranoia suited Bruce's needs just then, perfect for taking him out of the spotlight as much as possible and making a good story for the media. 

That wasn't the only thing Bruce dealt with in the following days. Alfred had been irate. Bruce couldn't blame him. As with all things, it was born out of his worry for Bruce, but standing in the kitchen and listening to the butler expound upon the ways Bruce should have seen, the ways Alfred had almost seen that night he'd interrupted them, was both humiliating and jarring. And all Bruce could do was take it because it was true, he should have known. 

Alfred kept him company. Kept him from withdrawing into himself and kept his mind off the news as best he could, but it wasn't easy. They were both waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Alfred's worry was all the more distinct in how his social life dwindled, almost to the point of resembling his homebody lifestyle in Bruce's childhood. His days out with old friends mysteriously dried up and became limited to short, hushed phone calls just out of Bruce's hearing - thanking and soothing concerned well-wishers before politely setting them aside to concentrate on his own priorities. And Bruce _was_ his priority, that was clear. Once his anger and frustration had dried up, Alfred had turned increasingly to concern. Bruce was always prone to depression, self-blame, and anger, and he didn't always know how to process those emotions in a healthy way. The quieter and more shadowed Bruce became as the days passed, the more Alfred took to hovering near him like an overprotective ghost, one who didn't quite know how to help and comfort.

Alfred brought Bruce lunch only to find him perched on a chair in the den, staring out through the broad glass panels at the sunlit city below. He sighed and set the tray on a nearby table, then settled into an adjacent chair. He wasn't going to leave until he had confirmed that Bruce had, in fact, eaten something. "We'll get through this, Master Bruce, as we have with so many things before. All it takes is time."

"I'm not sure I want to get through it, Alfred." Bruce tore his eyes from the gleaming rooftops and turned toward Alfred, but he found he couldn't meet the man's gaze and so he brought himself back to the window again. Alfred stood beside him, patient in his way, as Bruce considered why he'd said what he just had. He was aware of how he was acting - the heartsick fool - and it would have been fine if it were just a media ploy. The trouble was that it wasn't, and Alfred would catch on soon. If he hadn't already. Bruce considered it very likely that he had, what with the man's polite silences, his care, and most of all his worry. 

Bruce looked out over the city below and he saw René. Even though he'd never seen the man in the sunlight, in Bruce's mind the image was fitting. He wanted to tell Alfred, but he couldn't. Bruce never knew what he had until it was gone. Everything sounded so absurd, considering the facts that underlay it all. Bruce should not miss this man. He'd been lied to. But he remembered the look on René's face - and yes, he kept thinking of him as René now - that look, over and over again in all its earnest variations when the truth had come out. 

"Bruce, listen to me." Alfred's voice was kindly, but the phrase was too eerily similar to the words that had been replaying in Bruce's mind. He heard a mental echo, the same words leaving another throat. "I know it doesn't make a difference in how you feel, but you have to know, logically, that what you're mourning doesn't exist. Unlike every other loss in your life, _this_ was an illusion from the start. One big lie from beginning to end. There will still be grief, and anger, and frustration that you didn't see it, or maybe that you chose to ignore it, but what you are grieving is the dream you constructed."

"That's what I keep telling myself," Bruce said quietly, but his brows drew together, remembering the way he'd told the Joker that as well. But his reaction, the way he'd looked at Bruce.... Bruce let his head fall back against the chair, taking a deep breath before he looked at Alfred. A certain kind of shame welled inside him for what he was about to say, because even if the Joker hadn't played him, had believed in the whole lie down to his very bones, the man was deluded. What did it say about Bruce that he should fall into this trap as well? Bruce swallowed. "I'm just not sure it was a lie. I think he believed it." 

The admission came quietly, but the weight of it settled into the air around them. Alfred was watching him with the saddest eyes, so Bruce pulled his face into a small smile, one that only lasted a moment, but he tried. He turned to see what Alfred had brought him, and took the plate and fork, Bruce's not so subtle way of lessening the impact of his words. 

"Master Bruce, psychopaths just don't work that way," Alfred said quietly, delicately, as if Bruce was a child again and just learning to deal with the harshness of the world without shattering. "However pleasing the outside might be, however they might temporarily behave themselves, their minds are alien. They aren't capable of love. They often can't be reasoned with. Everything is self-serving, and destructive to everyone around them. Your doubts simply prove that he was a very good actor and that we haven't figured out what his end goal was, if his goal wasn't simply to toy with you and reduce you to this state."

Bruce nodded slowly, but memory after memory flooded his mind, each of them vying to contradict Alfred's theory. His own theory. Still, there was nothing he could say to disprove it, but Bruce knew this hadn't been the Joker's endgame. They may never know what it truly was, or whether the Joker had been telling the truth all along - that there simply wasn't one. "Thank you, Alfred." 

Bruce turned back to the city, taking a bite of sautéed chicken. It was good, but he ate mechanically, his mind slipping away from the present off to some lonely cell in Blackgate. 

Things took a definitive turn for the worst in the following week. Gossip and speculation in the media had reached a turning point; with how tangled the Joker's alter-ego had been with Bruce Wayne, the sudden reappearance of Batman, the showdown with the cops at Bruce Wayne's penthouse residence, and the way the police had been unable to locate the billionaire for hours after the scuffle, tentative lines were starting to be drawn. Batman's equipment was sophisticated and high-end enough that he had to have someone with deep pockets funding him – and it would be easier still if he was funding himself. Thus far it was only a half-hearted joke, as nobody could quite believe that Gotham's vapid playboy was secretly a brutal vigilante, but it was enough that a few investigators had dropped by Wayne Enterprises and his own residence to ask a few questions. Inevitably, someone would start an investigation unless the speculation could be permanently derailed.

Problems were compounded by a state of hysteria on the streets. Despite all precautions, Joker had managed to break out of Blackgate, killing several guards along the way before disappearing somewhere into the crime-ridden slums of the city. His first victim had been a rookie guard, new to the Blackgate facility, naive and lulled into carelessness. Enough for Joker to have lured him close, killed him, and stripped his body of keys, weapons, and uniform.

The news broke minutes before Bruce received a knock at the door, or rather, a message from the doorman on the ground floor. Bruce's plans for that night were derailed with GCPD officers awaiting with a search warrant and an order to take him into custody. He didn't resist. How could he? But as Bruce was being carted off in the back of a squad car, the Joker was on the run and with every passing moment his trail would grow colder.

One thing was clear from the start. Though the city had reason enough for the warrant, and though they could detain Bruce, they had no grounds yet upon which to arrest him. Bruce knew it and they knew it, and though he was brought to an interview room for questioning, a ploy the foolish Wayne heir might have fallen for any other time, Bruce gave them nothing but requests to speak to his lawyer. The trouble was, even if they didn't find anything in the penthouse or the manor - and Bruce was sure that they wouldn't - they could still hold him for thirty six hours. 

How eerily familiar it was to sit in a holding room, interview room - interrogation room, whatever they wanted to call it - so similar to the one where he'd grappled with the Joker so many years ago. 

Eventually the detectives stopped coming. Someone had called them away, and Bruce had a very strong suspicion who that someone was. 

After several more minutes, Commissioner Gordon slipped into the room, shutting the door behind himself. Two steaming mugs of coffee were in hand. He slid one across the table for Bruce after settling in the chair opposite him. Gordon was endeavoring to be polite, tactful, but he did the exact same thing every other detective had done so far - eying Bruce curiously, gaze lingering at the jawline while trying to mentally transpose a cowl and determine if it was even possible that the clueless billionaire could be the same person as Batman.

"We keep seeming to run into one another during the worst circumstances, Mr. Wayne." Gordon flashed him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I know this has to be troubling after all the recent stress you've been through."

Bruce nodded solemnly, warming his hands with the mug. His trust in the Commissioner was going to get the better of his vow of silence, he knew it, but Bruce could still work with this. Even if his thoughts kept retreating outside of this cell, wondering if the Joker was already long gone. 

Bruce watched the Commissioner as closely as he was being watched in return and a strange sense of empathy came over him. Gordon had run into Bruce during those odd circumstances, that was their official knowledge of one another, but Bruce still remembered him from the very beginning, that night his parents died. Gordon surely remembered, too. And more than that, Gordon knew the Batman. Gordon trusted him, and the Batman, _Bruce_ , trusted Gordon in return, even if he was technically there to interrogate Bruce for the sake of uncovering the Batman. ...it would be difficult to know whether Gordon was here for the GCPD, or for himself. 

Bruce turned the coffee in his hands and offered Gordon a thin smile. 

"I hope this doesn't cause any hard feelings between yourself and the GCPD. We have to be thorough, and impartial. I know you're likely to be worried about your own safety, and that of Mr. Pennyworth, with the recent news about the Blackgate breakout." Gordon's eyes were keen, searching Bruce's face for any small hint, any reaction to the reference. "We're stretched thin, but I've assigned extra security, given the circumstances. You should both be safe, if the Joker decides to continue whatever personal vendetta he's holding against you."

Gordon took a sip of his coffee, cleared his throat. "Speaking of, do you have any idea why he might have targeted you with such an unusual method? He hasn't previously been the subtle type. It seems very out of character for him to go after you without any immediate physical threats. Did he make any comments that might tell you what his goals were?"

Bruce shook his head slowly. "Come on, Commissioner. We both know why you brought me in the moment he escaped. The theories going around, and your detectives, haven't been exactly subtle. But I'm not the man you're looking for, and the only thing I can guess is that the Joker was planning to kill me in the end." It was more than Bruce had said since they brought him in, but he didn't regret it. Not with Gordon. 

"No, you're right, they haven't exactly been subtle." Gordon's tone was light, but his face was serious. He toyed with his coffee mug. "None of this makes sense, though. Everything we've seen from Joker's personality, from the documented crimes to his Arkham files, doesn't depict someone who enjoys posing as harmless and mundane in order to get close to victims. Charm and manipulation might be there, but the man has a taste for theatrics and a low tolerance for frustration. And even with that, eyewitnesses have documented him playing a more-or-less average citizen for months, well before you were targeted. The pieces just aren't adding up."

Bruce shrugged, playing nonchalance even though Gordon's words recalled Alfred's harsher assessment of the man's motives earlier that week. "Maybe he was just really desperate to get to this Batman character again. That's the going theory, isn't it? Joker gets close to me, holds me hostage or whatever to bring the Bat out of hiding? But you'd probably know more about that than I would." Bruce finally took a sip of his coffee. "The news says you're the only person who's ever talked to the Batman. And lived." 

"Well, the news says a good many things. As I'm sure you know firsthand." Both men had their best poker faces on. Both were very, very aware of the cameras and microphones in the room. "But you're right, using you as bait is a distinct possible motive. It's just unusual, again, because based on his previous style, he wouldn't have waited so long or had the patience to string you along, if you were marked as a future victim. It would have been far more likely for him to have kidnapped or killed you the first time he got you alone and vulnerable."

Gordon paused, took another sip of coffee while he mulled over his words. "...is there anything you can give us? Anything he might have said to you? You understand, how this looks from the outside. You're the only person that we know of that the Joker has targeted without harming, while completely breaking his MO."

Bruce smiled down at his cup, slowly shaking his head before he met Gordon's gaze again. "What can I say? Maybe I'm just irresistible?" Gordon's mouth drew tight, and Bruce shrugged. "But no, I don't know what he was planning, and I don't know anything about the Batman. Whatever was going on was... out of my hands." He looked into Gordon's face then, really looked. Bruce was giving him nothing because he had to, for both their sakes. 

Bruce saw then, in that brief connection, that not only did Gordon understand - he _believed_. He'd always been one of the sharpest officers on the force. They didn't have a scrap of solid evidence to tie Bruce to the Batman, nothing but suspicion and guesswork, but Gordon had already decided what his opinion was. The Commissioner was convinced that Bruce was Batman, on a mix of intuition and his own experience with Batman. The warning in his eyes passed between them wordlessly, an admonition for caution... and an expression of concern. "Well... I hope we get some answers and a bit of closure soon, so you don't have to keep living on tenterhooks like this. I suppose it's a good thing you're used to the whole media circus. With luck, we'll recapture the Joker and you'll be able to put all of this behind you."

"I'll happily leave the chase to you." Bruce gave him a stiff smile, meant more for the camera, but he was sure that Gordon could hear the warmth in his voice. He shifted the coffee cup, showing his nervousness, pent up for too long, playing the part while Gordon rose to his feet. Bruce didn't dare ask whether he'd be released now, but the question was set in his eyes when he looked up at the Commissioner. 

Gordon paused, and his projected uncertainty answered for him: he didn't know. They were playing a delicate game. Gordon still trusted Bruce, enough to watch his words and body language on camera, but there was only so much he could do in the circumstances. The Commissioner would have to see how much leeway he could give without drawing suspicion and fire, see how much his hands were actually tied.

Half an hour later, a pair of cops came to escort Bruce out of the station with strong warnings not to leave town. Gordon had evidently used the lack of evidence as leverage against holding Bruce Wayne the full thirty six hours. He was still a person of suspicion, but the GCPD had nothing to use as justification to detail him, nothing they could charge him with.

The first thing Bruce did was find a nearby coffee shop, borrow a phone since the police had taken his for the investigation, and have Alfred pick him up. 

The butler was none too pleased, but he understood. Ever since the Joker had gone back into GCPD custody, Bruce had moved as much of Batman’s equipment as he could to the bunker at the docks. The location had no connection to him and as long as he wasn't followed, neither GCPD nor the Joker would know of its existence. After a good thirty minutes of Alfred taking back streets and winding turns, Bruce was finally sure they'd lost whatever tail the police had put on them, and he and Alfred made their way to Batman's temporary base. 

 

A quick check via the computers showed nothing terribly unusual. Crime had always been a steady stream in Gotham, so none of the reports of assault, burglary, or robbery were out of the ordinary. They could have been the Joker trying to regain the means of pursuing his goals, or routine crimes perpetuated by mundane people who'd made bad choices. Nothing had the clown's dramatic, twisted signature on it.

Bruce was still skimming through the news and police reports when Alfred's phone went off.

Bruce glanced at him and Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Ah, just Jenkins, executive assistant to the board. Bit unusual for him to be calling now..." 

Bruce would have normally waived it off, but something made him sit back and pay attention as Alfred lifted the phone to his ear. 

"Yes, hello?"

"Mr. Pennyworth, I'm so sorry to be bothering you, but I have someone who needs verbal approval from Mr. Wayne on several of his accounts. There have been suspicious activities, enough that the transfers have been frozen, but... well, we wanted to be certain it wasn't a pre-approved business transfer to several French investment firms that just got thrown off the tracks with all the recent complications. The contact would have used Mr. Wayne's normal contact number, but I guess he hasn't been getting a response. Is Mr. Wayne available? Can I transfer the gentleman to you?"

"French firms, you say?" Alfred's eyes darted to Bruce and Bruce straightened. "Yes, I can transfer you to him. One moment." He put the caller on hold and Bruce got up. 

"Don't tell me, it's him." 

Alfred gave him a tight lipped smile and offered the phone. "I believe so." 

Bruce took it and raised the phone, pressing the call button. He licked his lips and listened. The call was active, but there was nothing but silence. "This is Bruce." 

"Of course it is." René's voice came through the receiver, slightly slurred around the edges. Drunk, possibly. "That was really rotten of you, you know. And people call _me_ heartless. And after all that, I'm _still_ worried about you. Looks like the media's making enough of a fuss that you've got cops crawling all over the place looking for a misstep."

"Where are you?" Bruce's voice dropped, not quite as low as the Batman's, but enough to show the Joker he wasn't playing around. Half of Bruce never thought he'd hear this man's voice again and that half thrilled at the sound. The rest of Bruce filled with cold dread. 

Bruce had hurt him. He'd locked him away and intended to leave him there, no matter how much Bruce could mitigate his treatment. Bruce held no illusions about how the Joker could take his revenge. 

"Oh very funny, _ha ha_ ," René drawled. His voice was tight and slightly uneven beyond the signs of intoxication - angry, and hurt. "Not a 'how are you' or an 'I'm sorry'. Just hoping I'm stupid enough to tell you where I am so you can chuck me back into a cage again." A pause, and Bruce could make out the sound of liquid sloshing against a mostly-empty glass bottle; drunk, then.

"I'm _around_ , that's all you need to know. All you _deserve_ to know. Trying to appeal to your sentimentality didn't work out so well for me last time."

His words cut Bruce deeper than he knew, echoes of the same thoughts Bruce had told himself over the past few weeks. Bruce's shoulders dropped. He was aware of Alfred watching, listening, but he didn't care. Ridiculous things passed through his mind. He could leave the Joker. The man could run, somewhere else, somewhere he could live as René. 

Bruce swallowed hard. "If I let you go, would you leave, never come back to Gotham again?"

"And leave you here? Not a fucking chance. Lis-... yeah, here. Listen. Are you paying attention this time? Instead of just blowing me off? Because I'm aware of how people blow off everything I say as crazy rambling unless they think there's a threat in there." Glass thumped against something wooden, violently enough that the sound reached the phone as clearly as if Bruce had been right next to the impact point. 

"That might have worked years ago. I just came here on a _job_ , because I was bored and you were a novelty. I don't think you understand what I'm saying when I'm talking _boredom_. This is the sort of thing that eats you alive, drives you nuts, it's so painful you'll do anything to make it go away for a while. So I do. And you looked like a good distraction at the time, and I was right about that. Except somewhere at the halfway point, maybe, when it was too late, you'd become too good. I couldn't think about killing you anymore. I couldn't think about leaving for a distraction somewhere else, because you were _here_ , going to stay here. I can't leave."

That traitorous bit of a thrill welled within Bruce even though he sought to tamp it down. "So what now?" he heard his voice shake and wished Alfred were gone. The butler simply watched him, tense and drawn, ready for Bruce to end the call and move into action, but he had no idea what the Joker was saying on the other end of the line. "You won't kill me, and you won't leave. That doesn't give you very many options." 

"No, it doesn't. Even fewer, because you were inconsiderate enough to get my face plastered all over the city, which means I don't have a legal outlet paired with an income anymore," René's voice hissed through the line. "But you didn't wait around for me to explain little things like that before deciding to chain me in a stairwell. And you're not very receptive, not-... if you leave, I'd follow you. But you don't want to leave either. Probably also don't want me following you."

Muffled laughter poured out of the receiver. It sounded despairing, not good-humored. "Probably means it's going to be the end of the line for me pretty soon, but what are you going to do? You have to play the hand you're dealt."

Bruce stood without speaking. Whatever hope that had sparked inside him twisted and burnt out. Alfred took a step forward and Bruce shook his head. "Alfred, go home. If the cops come back, tell them I've gone out for the night. Some party or something. I don't care." 

The butler paused and gave him a very hard look. "Whatever you're about to do - "

"I'm not going to do anything. I just need to take this call...alone." 

Alfred's eyes softened, but only slightly. Bruce had pained him, he could see that. Alfred had watched him mourn for a man he shouldn't have ever since that night, and Alfred had yet to see him come out of it. "Make sure you don't." The butler nodded once before he turned on his heel. 

Bruce watched him go before he sank down in his chair. He could hear the Joker's labored breathing on the other end, but Bruce didn't know what to say. A thousand words rested at the tip of his tongue, all trite, each as untrustworthy as the next. 

"Funny, how all your demands seem to have gone out the window now." Joker sighed and wood creaked in protest - leaning back on a chair. "Spare me your platitudes. You have no idea what my position is. Neither did the shrinks at Arkham. Hell, maybe I don't even know, but nobody listens and it won't change a damn thing anyways. Like you said, I don't have many options left. I can't kill you, or leave. You'll try to put me in a box if I get close, which I won't have. You won't kill me. And it's just a matter of time before I get bored again and start losing it."

Bruce sighed and ran a hand over his temple. "I know. You're right." Nothing he could say would make a difference, and Bruce just wanted to hear the other man's voice. "I believe you, you know. I know it wasn't a lie." Not that that changed anything. Still, Bruce wanted him to know. And while he was at it... "And yes, I should have known it was you. The whole time... I kept seeing you." Bruce's voice grew quieter. He wanted to shut down. None of this mattered and that was probably the only reason he was saying it now. "You were right about that, too." 

Silence filled the other end of the phone. Bruce began to fear that the other man might have hung up until he heard him sigh again. "Of course I'm right. And it makes no difference to you, because you're incredibly frustrating. You know, I'm beginning to think you have a real problem with self-sabotage, Bruce. You get rid of things that make you happy so you have something to feel sad and wronged about. Something to be angry about." Half-hearted laughter filled the receiver. "Ever consider you might be an addict?"

"This was never supposed to be about me. That was the whole point. Batman's work was supposed to be beyond _me_." And this man had destroyed that, had taken Bruce and tied him with the Batman so neatly and so effortlessly. Bruce didn't sabotage things he wanted because Bruce's wants were second to the Batman, always. The two had never conflicted before. Except Rachel, but even he knew he couldn't blame himself for her like he could this. This _thing_ with the Joker. A thing he didn't hate nearly as much as he wanted to. He'd expected revulsion if he ever heard René's voice again. He expected the anger he'd felt when he found out... but it wasn't there. 

"But that's the entire point, isn't it? Selfless things are never actually selfless. Not really." Silence filled the line again for a moment, introspective. "Although I don't blame you for not seeing it. It's very easy to analyze other people, but self-awareness is a fucking pain. Or so I've been told, given that I've been told there's a million things wrong with me and that I don't make sense to anyone else."

The chair creaked again, settling back to the floor with a thump. "I suppose, if I turned up on your doorstep again, that you'd just chain me to another railing."

Bruce's gaze dropped to the dusty floor. No answer came. His silence said more than anything. Bruce didn't want to, he knew that now, but how could he not? He'd betray everything for this man. He would help no one. 

The city had been on an upward swing ever since the Batman had disappeared and the Joker had been holed up in Arkham. Bruce and the Wayne Foundation, and so many other organizations he helped back, had finally started to make a difference. His clean energy project was going to revitalize the city. Bruce couldn't throw them to the anarchic whims of the Joker just because he felt something for the man.  
Bruce sighed. The silence stretched. He didn't want to hang up, but there was nothing he could say. 

"That's about what I thought. Another thing we have in common, very single-minded." Joker sighed in turn. They were at an impasse, yet neither wanted to end it. Even an auditory connection across the void was something to cling to. "I have been watching you, y'know. When I didn't think you'd notice, and it looks like you didn't. Not quite the same at a distance, but safer."

"If I ever do notice...you know what it'll take to make me let you walk away free." Bruce heard the plea in his own voice, but the words were hollow. He knew the Joker wouldn't stand to live quietly for long; the man had told him as much. And yet still Bruce asked because it was the only way he could see the man again. _And how he wanted to see this man again._ It grew like a thorn in his chest, restricting his lungs. 

"You kinda blew that one, honestly." Joker laughed quietly. Bitterly, from the sound of it. "So fixated on turning me in. My side job wasn't just a job, it was to get the noise to stop, the _itch_. I'd planned it out for a while as something to try, because I had nothing better to do in between... sessions. At Arkham. You sort of lose it in solitary if you can't keep yourself occupied. So..." He exhaled slowly. "I gave it a try. And you, because there's something about you that quiets things down. Now I don't get either one."

Bruce shut his eyes. "There's no way out, is there? One of us is going to destroy the other." Or both. Or the city around them, burning as it went. The Joker had once taken Bruce's happiness, his hope, and now that Bruce had returned the favor he felt no better than when he'd lost the first time. Talking with... René, the Joker... like this was almost more painful than not knowing. 

"Probably," Joker agreed, affecting false cheer. There was a liquid sound in the background as a glass was refilled. "There's something very poetic about you taking me out. Evening the score, the one person I can't kill being my downfall, so on and so forth. Trite, but that sort of thing makes for stories that people remember. I don't suppose you're willing to uproot to another metropolis that doesn't have my face plastered all over the wanted signs?"

Bruce sighed and shook his head, strangely feeling some of the Joker's levity. For once. It had to be at a time like this. "Not while you're still out there putting people in danger, wherever that is." Bruce lifted his palm to his face. He'd just closed his eyes again when he was startled to hear the tone of another call coming in, vying for his attention. Angrily he jabbed the button to cut it off, to send it to voicemail, he didn't care. 

"Going somewhere else is the only way I'll have a chance to give my experiment a long-term try," Joker pointed out. "The problem is you. I'm not leaving while you're here. Hell, I'm convinced it won't work without you. That was the entire point of trying to find you and get your attention. And I got a little carried away, ok, fine. _Fine_. I have trouble saying no, I can admit to that. And I can almost see your expression, you know. From the silence. Nobody thinks I can hold a _serious_ conversation."  
Joker huffed after his voice had trailed off into an irritated hiss, trying to regain hold of his temper. "If you're so concerned about me putting people in danger, and you want a different endgame, move. I've got no choices left."

Bruce gave a hollow laugh. "I don't have anything either. I can't - " The phone went off again, startling Bruce just as badly as it had the first time. He jabbed the call to voicemail again, but just as he lifted it to his ear another call sounded. "God _fucking_ dammit." It was another number this time, one that Bruce recognized. _Alfred_. "Just. Wait, ok? Don't go." Bruce put the Joker on hold, hoping desperately he wouldn't lose him, and picked up the other line. " _What?_ "

"Bruce, turn on the news. I think you had better see this." The butler's voice was clipped, ignoring Bruce's outburst completely. 

Punching the keyboard at his desk, Bruce brought to life the Gotham Herald and his jaw went slack. The streets of downtown were on fire. More specifically, the old county jail where the Joker had once been held. The building that had already been slated to be demolished, but it looked like plans had changed. Reports of hostages in the building were coming in. The Joker's name was front page news. 

"I don't think your friend's quite done having fun yet," Alfred interrupted and Bruce hung up on him, switching back to the Joker. 

"What have you done?"

"Wait, what? What have I done? Look, Bats, I haven't had _time_ to get anything done beyond shelter, following you for a bit, and wallowing in misery with a bottle of... whatever this is. Some sort of rum. I'm glad you've been impressed with my previous handiwork, but I'm not _magic_. I have actual physical limitations."

"Not unless you had this planned out already. _Godammit_. I knew you had help before. Whoever you've got downtown, _call it off_ ," Bruce growled. He couldn't believe it. He thought...he thought he'd have more time. Although more time for what - for this depressing conversation, to dwell on a future that would only end in bloodshed, to try to forget this man - he didn't know. He hadn't expected the Joker to retaliate so quickly, but he should have. 

"Call off _what_? What's going on downtown?" Joker was unusually short and irritable, but that could very well have all been part of an act. Wood screeched against the floor in the background. "I was straight with you before, because I thought you were going to actually deal with me. _There's no one else left._ They're in the gutter, or the river, wherever, they're _gone_. No longer on the playing board. I haven't had time to put anything else into the works."

Bruce slammed his fist to the table. " _Why are you lying to me?_ " Because the Joker was right, maybe not about that instance, considering, but Bruce had come to believe he'd meant what he said when they spoke like this. Lying by omission was the Joker's style. But maybe it didn't matter now. It certainly didn't matter to the people downtown now. In a fit of rage, Bruce nearly threw the phone across the room. It went down on his desk instead. He ended the call with a sense of finality he hadn't had since it began and ran for the suit. 

Whatever the Joker had done, or was about to do, even if he really didn't want Bruce there this time, he would be.

* * *

Flames were licking some of the windows of the old county jail building in tendrils once Batman arrived. The amount of smoke billowing out of the building wasn't a good sign, particularly considering the conversation going on in the media and via the police radio. At least a dozen hostages were trapped inside. The goal appeared to be to send a message, to inflict punishment, rather than to achieve any goals by bartering for it with human life. Firefighters were arriving on the scene, but it was debatable whether they'd be able to reach the people inside in time. Suffocation by smoke was the greatest concern.

Bruce couldn't get the Tumbler close, and he definitely couldn't get it inside, not without risking the foundation to the building. Though it looked like the outer walls were still fortified, with all the smoke it was difficult to tell what he'd encounter on the inside. They might soon be the only thing holding the building together. 

Bruce knew from observation that it was comprised at least partially of that stone wall on the inside, the division between the jail and the 'bullpen', where the offices resided. He wouldn't be able to break his way out that way if he needed to, but if he were the Joker, that was where he'd keep the hostages. Right next to the room where they'd first become... intimate. 

Donning his custom gas mask from his perch behind the balustrade of the opposite brownstone buildings, Bruce readied himself, arms outstretched, cape held fast, and dove. 

The smoke partially obscured his descent, but Bruce couldn't count on it. It was smarter to assume that he'd been immediately noticed by the emergency response teams outside the building. He'd have to make this quick, both for the sake of the potential victims inside and to escape before he was trapped in the building.

Batman shattered right through a pane of glass into one of the rooms that hadn't been filled with flickering light. The atmosphere was overly warm, and full of dense smoke that cast a haze over the room, but fire was absent. A touch at the door confirmed that the hallway outside was safe, and he opened the portal to begin his dash through the building towards his target point.

Smoke made it difficult to see more than a few yards in front of himself, and heat made Bruce's armor feel all the heavier. He could feel his skin growing damp as he ran. Bruce vaulted down the stairwell, expecting to see more signs of fire slowly spreading through the building, but there was nothing. Just more smoke, and an empty open lobby.

It was actually _cooler_ down there than it had been nearer to the street. To the sides of the building. The only parts where he'd seen actual flame. And that wasn't right. Bruce ran down the corridor, past empty offices and then empty cells, but the space was clear. Just as a cold wave of foreboding overcame him, he heard a clang and turned just fast enough to see two stun grenades being lobbed his way, and then the halls exploded into life. 

It was too quick. Even through protective eye wear, the light and the blast threw him back, disoriented, and then the shouts came. People moving in unison as Bruce stumbled backwards, regaining himself quickly, quick enough to realize these were no hired guns. Black combat-clad figures came at him from all sides, weapons raised, "GCPD" emblazoned on their kevlar vests. 

Bruce didn't think twice. Bruce disappeared. The Batman attacked, hurtling himself up into the air, landing behind the ring they'd formed around him as bullets flew over his shoulder, grabbing one man for protection as more flooded through the open hall. 

Between the smoke, sheer number of black-clad bodies, and the cacophony of gunshots, it was difficult for the policemen to clearly distinguish friend from foe. It made them hesitate - to Bruce's advantage, but not quite enough. There were too many, and the space was too enclosed. There was nothing to grapple onto in order to escape in a vertical direction. Policemen were crowded in adjacent hallways, guns and riot shields ready.

Their singular focus was broken only by a sound of commotion behind one of the flanks. A metallic crash echoed down one hallway, loud enough to turn heads. A warning cry went up shortly before more gunfire joined the rest. The GCPD officers in one hallway suddenly fell to the ground, a dark pool spreading underneath them. A man stepped over the bodies, barely recognizable with a pair of biker goggles over his eyes and a water-soaked bandanna covering his mouth and nose. What was recognizable was the tangle of blond hair, pulled back in a knotted ponytail, and the expert way he took cover to start picking off further officers with a rifle.

Bruce was so stunned the next blow of a baton hit him straight in the temple. And the butt of a rifle came after that. He went down only to drag himself up again, but they were on him now. The sound of gunfire was deafening. There were people shouting, screaming. Some of them had broken off, shields were barricaded against the Batman's unexpected ally, but they weren't enough. 

Bruce's head swam. He threw his fists left, right, landing blow after blow, but they came back as quickly as he dealt them. The cops would have taken him out by now if they'd only had a clear shot. He saw the flash of a knife and barely wrenched away in time before he was bowled over again, hands grabbing at him, at his face. The mask. Bruce's own howl was added to the mix as it came away. 

A grenade was tossed somewhere nearby, square into a mass of officers. The sound was deafening, muffling the world with a distant, high-pitched ringing. The weapon did its work, however - the injured policemen collapsed, and others nearby were startled enough to duck for cover. Distantly, Bruce could hear another flurry of gunshots, and more dark shapes in the air. Two more grenades. Officers scrambled to get out of the way, knowing that kevlar and shields might not be enough to deflect the resulting injuries.

It was just enough for Bruce to fight his way free again. He could see flashes of light where Joker was providing firepower as cover, half-kneeling behind a heavy desk.

Bruce ran for it, stumbling for cover as he felt the impact of the return fire graze his shoulder. It did little damage, but the deep bruises he'd sustained weeks ago still hadn't fully healed. And that hadn't been all. He could feel something buried in his side, caught between the armored plating, but he couldn't slow down. He slammed into the side of the desk just as familiar brown eyes flashed towards him. They met for a split second, all the Joker had to spare before he returned fire again. 

Bruce heaved a breath, gathering himself. "Stop!" The shout was for the Joker, Bruce's hand over his arm. It was a miracle if the man heard him, but the intent was clear. Bruce didn't want anyone else dead. 

Joker's rifle rose slightly, changing the trajectory into a rapid series of warning shots before he turned to run. Or tried to; his balance wavered slightly as he shot back up to his feet and turned, and there was a slight pause in his movements, a slight lilting to one side as he retreated back down the corridor. _Drunk_. He'd figured out Bruce had been walking into a trap and hadn't paused to consider the consequences, but had rushed full-on into a police ambush and firefight while compromised.

Bruce shifted. The police were shouting to each other, trying to ascertain casualties, wounded. Trying to regroup. There was smoke everywhere now, not from the fire, but from their battle. Bruce didn't have much time. He had plenty of smoke grenades, but nothing that packed the firepower they needed to get out. The element of surprise was lost to him here, and now they were down to primitive warfare. 

Bruce's eyes swept over the Joker while the other man gave him a questioning glance. The Joker had had a lot of firepower when he'd set up his last little game, and he'd scavenged some hidden reserve caches of it for this fight. Bruce caught on what he wanted, bulging in the man's pockets. Deftly, Bruce moved closer and slipped his hand inside. "We're going to make a run for it," he breathed low into the Joker's ear, pulling out a hand grenade. The lethal kind. He felt what he swore was the man tremble, but not in fear. 

" _Get back!_ " Bruce shouted as loud as he could before he rose and lobbed it into the brick wall.  
The grenade hit the wall and exploded in a rain of dust and brick shards, punching a sizeable hole through to the other side. The officers fell back again, savvy enough to be able to discern the sound and sight of a frag grenade from the flashbang ones that had previously been used against them. Joker ran for the newly-made exit, rifle in hand in case anyone tried to block the hole. Bruce followed behind him like a shadow, standing between the criminal's unarmored body and the crowd of GCPD officers still reeling behind them.

They were through in less than a second, jumping through the debris, although Bruce had to reach out and steady a stumbling Joker, and once again when they were clear of the debris and Joker listed while they ran. It was just as well though. Bruce had an arm over the Joker's shoulders by the time they reached the stairwell and it was time to put the man behind him. They'd locked it, but the Batman came prepared. Within three seconds one of the gadgets at his belt unbolted the door. He'd expected an ambush on the other side, but there was none. All the officers had joined the fight behind them. Still Bruce took the lead, but he kept a tight hold on the Joker as they ran. If they encountered anyone on the way, Batman would get the brunt of the attack. 

Bruce tore a receiver from his belt and jabbed in a code. They needed to clear a path out of there.  
The smoke was gone when they reached the ground floor. The whole thing had been a ruse - that was the first thing Bruce noticed when they crashed through the stairwell door and bolted down the hall. The second was that they were surrounded. He could see through the front doors that the firemen, the police that had been clearing traffic, all of them now surrounded the building. 

Joker took all of them in with a critical eye, conscious of the fact that they were running out of time. The officers behind them would take up pursuit and attack again at any moment, and there were far too many cops and firemen outside the building for the two of them to fight off by themselves. Joker glanced behind them, levering the goggles he'd used to protect himself from the smoke up onto his forehead. They left a streak of soot behind. "I don't suppose you have more of those fancy grappling devices with you, because I didn't bring a backup plan."

"I've got one," Bruce rasped. He looked down at the receiver, counting down the seconds as they heard the distinct sound of a bullhorn outside. 

The police were addressing them, or more specifically, the Batman, to surrender. If they knew who the man who'd torn inside the building after him was, they didn't mention it, though Bruce knew that would get out as soon as the SWAT team behind them regrouped. 

A spotlight fell through the window, searching them out and Bruce backed away, instinctively putting René - _the Joker_ behind him even without his mask. Windows on either side of them broke. More lights came through and Bruce couldn't dodge them all. There was a shout from the stairwell. The barrels of more than a dozen guns surrounded them. 

And finally, the receiver beeped. 

" _Down!_ " Bruce threw himself into the Joker as something very large came crashing through the front doors. The Tumbler tore through drywall and sent beams splintering, but it was through and it came to a rough stop just before them. Bruce dragged the Joker up just as the shots began to fire.  
They moved quickly, but not enough. Metallic pings filled the air as bullets ricoched off the Tumbler. Bruce let out a grunt as two bullets hit his armor, stopped by the kevlar, and one grazed Joker's leg. He hissed, eyes narrowing above the cloth bandana mask, and then Bruce was pulling him into the Tumblr with him. The top panel slid shut, sealing them off from mortal danger for the moment. 

Joker let go of his death grip on his rifle to press a hand against his leg. He raised his palm to inspect the bloody streak. It was faint enough, narrow enough, to confirm that it was only a scratch, but he turned suspicious eyes on Bruce. He wouldn't be able to run at full speed as he was, and if Bruce decided to abandon him to law enforcement again, there would be little he could do about it.

Bruce ignored him, already putting the machine in gear. "Hold on," he growled before he punched the ignition and they were swerving again, spinning out in front of the barrage of bullets and speeding back toward the broken doors. 

The police had had the unfortunate idea of trying to drive the fire truck into their path, blocking the exit. Bruce saw it and there was no time to stop. If he veered either left or right, they could get through the wall, but there would be casualties. He aligned the targeting system and aimed dead ahead, firing into the side of the truck as it rolled into place. He kept firing, laying into the side of the tank as water burst forth, the pressure overtaking what was left of the steel body of the engine. 

They crashed into it, pulling the last of it apart, separating the halves to spin out and topple around them, and then they were through. 

Joker chuckled. He let go of a handhold just long enough to pull the bandana mask down, scarred mouth curling upward in a flash of teeth. No one outside of the armored car could see them, but the tinted panels let them see their surroundings relatively well. They ploughed through the surrounding ring of vehicles effortlessly, and the cops and firemen were slow to respond to the escape. All had been bracing for a shootout with someone on foot, not a chase through the streets, and there was a scramble behind the Tumbler as they all hurried to get into squad cars and start pursuit.

Bruce was gunning it, and the sheer speed combined with the alcohol in his system made Joker view the landscape outside as a nearly-monochromatic blur. He shut his eyes and swallowed, sinking a little lower in his seat.

"Don't you pass out on me," Bruce growled. There was only one place he could take them now, one place where he would be safe, but Bruce wouldn't do it. Not yet. He still had the Joker with him and... The police had seen him. All those lights shining in had seen him. Cameras mounted to the vests of barricading officers would have recorded his likeness and Bruce knew there was no hope that they hadn't. It sent a spike of something hot and a lot like fear up through his chest before he battled it down, willing himself to act, not react. _Keep moving. Don't think. Don't think about it. Get safe._

It was a mantra in Bruce's head as he swerved through the downtown streets, peeling through back alleys with the sound of distant sirens and not far behind and a helicopter overhead. 

Joker fixed Bruce with a glare. "I'm not going to pass out. I'm well enough to have driven across town to pull you out of a cop ambush. I'm _fine_." And yet, as Bruce rounded another corner sharply, his eyes closed again for a moment while he adjusted to the shift. "Where are we going? Or are we actually going anywhere? Did you have a _plan_ for if anyone ever pried your mask off? Cops are going to be crawling all over that penthouse and your manor, which means you'd better have another place, or be able to ditch the tank. We can use my place if you've got nothing up your sleeve."

Bruce scowled. He bit back the wild retort that bubbled up in his throat, both frustrated and excited by the man at his side. "I can lose them." As they cleared the downtown streets, Bruce slipped the Tumbler into stealth mode, losing the headlights, even masking the heat of its engines. The great spotlight of the helicopter slid over them, back and forth, missing as Bruce changed trajectory, turning off suddenly onto an on ramp and moving through traffic on the highway. 

But the more Bruce thought about it, the more the Joker's words stuck. He couldn't give up his last hideout, not to the cops and certainly not to this man. 

"Where is 'your place'?"

"Head towards West Chelsea Hill, near the Narrows. Apollo Avenue, right near the Midtown Bridge." Joker looked wary again, scrutinizing Bruce for signs that the man was going to betray him again, rescue or no. "Just get close, ditch the tank, and I'll give you directions the rest of the way." Noting Bruce's incredulous look, the corners of his mouth lifted for a second. "You'd be surprised how much students and theater people let you blend in without a hitch, more than living in the actual slums where you have to worry about bullets through the walls."

Bruce looked back to the street, moving through traffic as easily as he could. Where it became congested, he had to go around. Cars saw the great hulking shape of the Tumbler as soon as the street lights hit it, but it disappeared as often as it was illuminated. They couldn't get through blocks of nightlife traffic like this, but Bruce was able to circumvent most of it. Eventually they came upon the bridge through a small frontage road, and Bruce kept to the alley. The Tumbler rolled along silently until he was able to scope out a small Thai restaurant next to an old custom upholstering shop that looked like it had been closed for some time. There wasn't much space behind it with the dumpster bins, but there was just enough to maneuver the Tumbler inside. 

Bruce cut the engine and glanced to the Joker. He found the man staring back at him unnervingly and he was hit with the quiet sense that he'd never expected to see the man like this again. Not in person. Not without a wall of reinforced glass between them. Bruce's lips parted, but nothing came out. 

The moment didn't last. Joker shook his head as the panels slid back to let them out, and then he was climbing out, forcing Bruce to follow. Now that they had a bit of leeway and weren't quite running for their lives, Joker was slower, held up by his muddled senses and the graze wound on his thigh. He tugged the bandana back up over his nose to hide the scars, shouldered the rifle, and stalked off, glancing back to see if Bruce was following.

The neighborhood had seen better days, and it was easy to see why Joker had picked the place. The side streets were mostly deserted, making it easy to avoid being spotted. Many of the streetlights were neglected, leaving only small patches of illumination among the darkness. Quite a few businesses were closed up, For Lease signs hanging in dusty, empty windows. Joker moved down a back alley and brought them to a rusted metal fire escape. Three floors up and he was unlocking a nondescript door with peeling paint. A small metal plaque read _304_.

The door swung open on a mostly-empty apartment. The walls were a bland off-white. A basic kitchen with a few dishes in the sink could be seen in one corner, with a hallway leading off to a bathroom and what must have been the bedroom. A battered, stained wooden table and two chairs were the only pieces of furniture occupying the main room. The table still had a bottle of rum abandoned on it.

Overcoming his state of listlessness, Bruce tore off his gloves and took out his phone. He had to make sure Alfred knew that he was ok... but this wasn't his phone. It was Alfred's. Bruce grit his teeth, trying to dislodge the pang of worry that settled in his chest. As he brought the screen up, however, the missed calls jumped out at him. That same number he hadn't recognized had left three voice messages. Bruce put the phone to his ear and pressed play. 

"Hello?" began a familiar, hurried voice, "This is Commissioner James Gordon. I need to speak with Bruce Wayne. It's urgent." 

The second was much the same. By the third, Gordon had abandoned all pretense. 

"Listen, if you get this, don't let him go downtown."

Bruce hung up with a frown. Gordon had tried to warn him. 

Joker stripped off the bandana mask and tossed it on the table. He kept his countenance tilted, always partially facing Bruce in order to keep an eye on him. He'd jumped into the fray to save him, and decided to compromise this particular hideout out of the few he had in the city, but Joker was insecure about Bruce's intentions. He was generally good at predicting human behavior, which way people were going to jump, but part of Bruce's draw was the way he was surprising and, by extension, the way he was dangerous.

The blond finally couldn't put off leaving any longer and slipped down the hallway into the bathroom. The graze wound in his thigh was only a scratch, but still needed cleaning and dressing. He kept the door open, intent on eavesdropping should Bruce get any bright ideas.

Bruce stared at the light cascading down the hall and the glimpses of movement inside. He felt...strangely numb. He'd been flying and now he'd hit dead air, suspended animation, and he felt it throughout every inch of his body and mind. Like he was floating. Funny, how this, of all things, should feel unreal. 

Bruce moved down the hall slowly, but he let his boots sound on the floor. The Joker looked up from the sink and their eyes met in the mirror. He looked... surprised. Uncertain. A little hazy around the edges from the alcohol, but... There was that pull again, as though merely looking upon his face drew Bruce in. The fight had gone out of him. In the back of his mind he knew this didn't change anything. Whether Batman was known to be Bruce Wayne or not, the Joker was still a threat. He would still get restless. He would still crave his particular brand of bloodshed. But right now, in the wake of everything, that didn't seem to matter. 

Bruce stepped forward, reaching out to touch the man's shoulder. 

Joker dropped the first aid supplies he'd been picking out of a small plastic kit. His attention was thoroughly diverted, and his reaction to Bruce's closeness was as potent and visible as it had been every other time. Brown eyes turned black as his pupils suddenly dilated, and Bruce felt a quiver in the body beneath his fingertips before the muscles tensed. Joker was scrutinizing Bruce's face in an attempt to determine his intent, and whether he was going to have to fight his way free. He wasn't going to put it past Batman to incapacitate him and tip the cops off to his location before slipping off to safety somewhere else.

Bruce stepped closer, into the Joker's space. His gaze drew as intently over the blond as the Joker's did him, but Bruce could see the questions in his expression. A rare moment of vulnerability. Even that was... interesting. 

Flashes of this man beneath him scattered through Bruce's thoughts. He remembered distinctly what the Joker's unmarred face looked like in the low light of Bruce's penthouse. 

Bruce's hand moved up over the top of his shoulder and laid to rest at his collar. The Joker's pulse beat frantically and Bruce knew he didn't feel completely safe, and somehow, perhaps somewhat troubling, that calmed Bruce. He leaned in. Slowly. Very slowly. They were inches apart, and Bruce brushed the Joker's mouth with his own. 

A small sound escaped Joker, somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a quiet moan. His pulse fluttered beneath Bruce's hand like a trapped bird. The blond was drawn forward, drawn in, despite all his wariness, leaning to reclose the distance the moment Bruce pulled back even slightly. His hands settled on Bruce's armored sides, fingertips catching on the plate edges, as if that would hook him in place and keep him from leaving.

Bruce didn't need much encouragement after that. As familiar as the catch of this man's lips was, it was equally unreal. He stepped forward again, brushing against the Joker, chest to chest, and this seemed to excite the man. Bruce felt him rise up, uncurling his tense frame to meet Bruce. 

But it wasn't enough. 

Bruce stepped forward again and before he knew it, he was bodily forcing the Joker back, making the man's pulse spike. Joker’s back hit the wall, but Bruce didn't let go of his mouth. Their kiss grew savage, Bruce pressing against the Joker with his whole body now, ignoring the mirror swinging on its hinge, dislodged from the impact. He ignored the unnerving quiet of the street below, or the faint, unusual smells that settled into the apartment. Bruce could perhaps ignore everything like this, losing himself in this man's body. 

Joker exhaled sharply at the impact. He was no longer content with keeping his hands limited to Bruce's waist. His arms moved higher, one twining around Bruce's armored shoulders while his other hand grabbed a fistful of dark hair. His grip was tight enough to hurt, and Joker let out a pleased laugh at the way Bruce turned more aggressive in turn. A heartbeat later, his lips parted and let Bruce in.

And now, _now_ it was evident just why René had objected to this sort of kissing before. A clever application of cosmetics could smooth over and hide the scars on the outside, but not the matching lines inside his mouth. Beyond the spiced, potent taste of rum, Bruce could feel the ridged tissue on either side when he explored.

Bruce wasn't expecting the feel of it to go straight to his cock. Bruce pressed his hips into the Joker, knowing distantly that the other man wouldn't be able to feel it through his armor, but he would _know_. A low rumble escaped his mouth when they moved, teeth clashing until Bruce deepened the kiss again. It was so new and again so familiar, something he'd been wanting from René... No. Something he'd been wanting from the Joker, even when he hadn't known. His teeth caught at the Joker's bottom lip. With every brush over a scar Bruce grew a little more entranced, a little more hurried. 

Bruce needed this. _Something to hold onto._

Joker kept pressing back, fighting just enough to keep Bruce focused on dominance. Every action was laced with a hook, drawing him closer and binding him there, and it was debatable whether Joker was conscious of it or whether it was purely instinctual, manipulation coming as natural as breathing. Teeth grazed his lower lip again and Joker practically growled, biting back just enough to get Bruce to break the kiss for a moment.

"Other room." The blond barely managed to get the words out before Bruce leaned back in to claim his mouth again. Joker's fist pulled on dark hair, trying to get Bruce to _move_.

While technically it did, Bruce moved _forward_ , pressing the man against the wall, arms wrapping around the Joker, squeezing him like Bruce wanted to crush him. Part of Bruce did. He would have loved to hear bone crack under his arms. He wanted to wrap himself around this man, engulf him, but the Joker's words registered and Bruce finally dragged him back. It wasn't gentle. Bruce ignored the pain in his side and his shoulder and the Joker gave no sign his leg bothered him even though it must. But Bruce didn't let go. He forced the Joker to walk backward, keeping the man locked to him with his mouth as much as his iron grip.

Joker was already panting from having the breath crushed out of him. Panting, and still wary, but not afraid - not of Bruce damaging him, or killing him. Neither possibility sparked any sort of chill inside him, nothing other than a detached observation that both things were options for how things could play out. Bruce's focus and overwhelming need were far more interesting and struck a matching amount of desire. Bruce was off-balance and vulnerable, exactly what Joker had wanted for so long, and he was the only handhold within reach to keep him from drowning.

Joker wanted this. Wanted whatever Bruce was willing to give him, whatever would knot them together so tightly that Bruce would never want to let go again. Nothing else mattered in comparison with having his obsession satisfied.

They stumbled down the remainder of the hallway into a cluttered bedroom. A mattress was on the floor, heaped with blankets. A cache of weaponry was in one corner of the room, a battered vanity heaped with cosmetics and other supplies in another. The door to the small closet was missing, leaving a black hole into the storage space. A plastic storage box was beside the bed, with a digital clock perched on top - a makeshift nightstand.

Bruce disregarded all of it. He caught the Joker around the waist and shifted his weight, taking the Joker's legs out from under him and together they fell atop the mattress. Bruce let out a sharp grunt as something jabbed into his side before he remembered the broken knife lodged between his armored plates. He grit his teeth and the Joker looked on fondly, reveling silently in Bruce's pain. He needed to get the suit off. 

Deftly, Bruce worked at the latches around his shoulders first, undoing them first so that he could get at the plate over his chest, and then, finally, his abdomen and the tender spot at his side. 

It peeled off sticky, blood mixed with sweat, but as soon as it was free Bruce could see that the cut wasn’t deep. 

The lighting was dim, limited to what made it down the hallway from the bathroom, but Joker had heard the tacky sound when Bruce pried the lower armor off. He watched Bruce's head turned and followed his gaze to the small, shallow gash on his side. Joker's fingers moved before he even had a chance to consider it, reaching out to touch the sticky, congealing blood surrounding the wound. A smile touched his features when the digits drew closer and Bruce grimaced. "...I feel a bit cheated that someone else got to mark you."

Bruce laughed softly. "You're about a dozen times too late for that." The Joker had seen his scars. He'd seen the Joker's, too. Bruce leaned over him again, forcing him down with a well-placed hand to his chest. "That was how I recognized you, you know. You hid the ones on your face. At the club you hid them on your body... but not with me." Bruce settled between the Joker's legs, digging into the man with the armor around his lower half while Bruce worked at the buttons of his shirt. "You weren't planning on getting naked with Bruce Wayne that night, were you?"

Joker hissed as the plates dug into his skin, but it quickly turned into laughter. The sound had a helpless edge to it, like he couldn't quite make himself stop. Bruce was working quickly, parting cloth to reveal a widening path of pale, scarred skin. "No, of course not. I never _actually_ let anyone that close. You were just supposed to be bait, motivation, _something_ to get Batman out in the open so I could find him again. You or whatever other unlucky bastard I could hook that night. I, uh." Joker's voice cut off and his breath hitched when Bruce's hands slid across his now-bared chest. "...I figured out it was you, once I saw... _that_ scar, you know, the one I gave you. I stopped thinking at that point."

Bruce leaned down and laughed softly against the Joker's neck. He made sure the man could feel it before it struck him what he was doing. He pushed the thought away as soon as it formed, that he was giving in, that he was letting the Joker get to him, that he shouldn't be doing this. Bruce sent it to the back of his mind and bit the man's collar bone, as though he were the one who'd put it in Bruce's head. 

Bruce's hands caught at the Joker's belt, undoing it with a single, satisfying pull, and then he was wrenching the man's pants down his hips. 

Joker arched into the bite as if it was a kiss and moaned, arms wrapping around Bruce in a lover's embrace. Bruce's teeth and the wound in his thigh were two points of fire - grounding, but strangely pleasant that way. When everything was numbness, sensation was a blessing, and doubly so when the object of his obsession was completely focused on him. Part of Joker was still processing Bruce's words. "...you were at the club? When? I don't bare skin during the torture acts, or when I do suspensions, so... one of the fire act nights, wasn't it?"

Bruce barked out a harsh laugh. There was little else he could do. "One of your 'fire nights', you could say that. Try _the_ fire night. The night you left seven territorial criminals over the blaze at Vincefinkel Bridge. However you got across town that fast..." Bruce shook his head, letting his hands wander down the Joker's bare skin, caressing his sides, feeling over the curve of his ass, down to his thighs and inadvertently edging too close to the wound. Bruce had thought he'd never feel the man this way again. He was surprised at the sheer force of gratitude he felt now, just for having this one last time. 

Joker's eyes shut and he arched up against Bruce, as much as he could when being pressed down against the mattress. When he opened them again, his eyes looked black in the darkness. Demonic. Something that was going to seduce Bruce in order to swallow him whole. "Mmmm, that's my little secret. I can move very quickly when I have to. Don't tell me you feel bad over that lot. Completely uncreative waste of space. There was nothing fun about it. I just... wanted to see if you were still in there. If you'd let your whole Billionaire Playboy routine take you over, or take the fight out of you, if you were lost instead of just being locked into a different disguise than I was used to."

Bruce ground his hips into the Joker, probably causing him more pain than he did pleasure with the unforgiving edges of his suit, but Bruce wasn't angry. He just wanted the Joker to feel it. Feel that he indeed had not been 'taken over' by his other mask, that although the Batman was meant to be gone... he wasn't. 

Bruce had meant to live his life after Batman. Harvey had been right, how could he have wanted to do this forever? But the trouble was that, deep down, the battle hadn't ended. The battle Bruce fought, that he had fought as Batman, would never end. And so, somewhere inside him, Batman had never truly ended either. His hands clasped at the sides of the Joker's face and Bruce looked into him. "I'm still here."

Joker's featured sobered. The half-smile vanished, replaced by the burning intensity Bruce had seen in him the night he'd decided to turn Joker in. The night the madman had seemed unable to keep away from him, drawn magnetically across the room in an bid to be closer. There was a manic hunger behind those dark eyes, a void desperately trying to fill itself. "I know that _now_."

Bruce kissed him roughly. The Joker's body arched and Bruce tore at the fastening of his belt, of the rest of the suit. Kicking his boots off was impossible, but after a bit of a struggle, the rest of it was shoved to the floor. 

They were a mess of dried sweat and blood and very suddenly a tangle of limbs. Bruce was back on top of the Joker, letting their hips slide together as the man's teeth sank into his lip and Bruce's hands tangled in his hair. Knowing who the man was now... it was strange. It didn't diminish the lust at all. The secret fantasy Bruce had had was still there, but now it was all out in the open. Now he was looking into... the same face, but a different one. 

Joker held him the same way as René had, even responded the same way. Or near enough, just with less wariness, less restraint. His secret was out in the open now, with nothing left to protect. He clung to Bruce with a desperation that reminded him of a drowning victim, grinding up against Bruce's hips even as he tried to pull him closer. Joker wasn't a lightweight by any means, but he was shorter, all toned lean muscle instead of bulk and strength, and not enough to forcefully flip them over. He tried to play for dominance from the bottom, biting back at Bruce's mouth and invading it with his tongue, arching up in an attempt to shatter Bruce's control.

It was working. And quickly. Bruce's touches became more rough, rougher even than he'd allowed himself with René at their high points. Bruce's nails dug into the Joker's flesh, his knees pinned the man down, his mouth bit at the Joker's neck and protruding collar bone, and all of it was designed to hurt. And still Bruce received nothing in return but wanton encouragement. He held the Joker's wrists and wanted to feel the bones break. He wanted to reach that vein in his neck and find the blood that pumped life into him. But Bruce didn't want to kill him. He wanted to be inside him. 

"Where?" Bruce mumbled against the Joker's throat, "Do you have...?"

Joker let go of Bruce just long enough to feel blindly for the plastic sliding drawer to one side of the mattress. Bruce quickly got the idea, and through a few seconds of fumbling, Bruce found the tube of lubricant that had been hidden inside amidst several other curious toys and tools. Bruce had touched leather, metal, and silicone before finally closing his hand around the plastic case he was looking for.  
Joker took advantage of Bruce's distraction. His nails raked down the man's skin, and he leaned up to bite at whatever was within reach the moment Bruce leaned back and gave him an inch of space. The angle caught the light from down the hall, illuminating Joker's shoulder - enough to reveal two pink half-circles of newly regenerated skin. Scars. He'd picked at the injury Bruce had given him their last time together to ensure it would leave a permanent mark.

Bruce's attention caught on it as he turned back. The Joker's eyes followed his and Bruce swore he saw the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The marks stood out vividly against the Joker's skin. Bruce had done this. He'd given the man these, and though he suspected he'd given the man scars before... that didn't compare. 

Delicately, Bruce leaned down to trail his mouth over the healing wounds. They felt rough against his lips and held the slightest tang of sweat and...if Bruce bit again, copper. He was tempted to, but a larger part of him didn't want to mar what they would become. If this all ended in tragedy, in his death or incarceration, Bruce would want the Joker to keep these marks. He drew back, unclasping the bottle and pouring a good dose of gel over his fingers. 

With Bruce already situated between his legs, there was no shifting to be done. One moment Joker was focused on the residual tingle in his shoulder where Bruce's mouth had been, and the next he was biting back a curse as cold, slick fingers circled his entrance and one digit slid inside. It burned, but not enough to be dissuasive. _Never_ enough to be dissuasive, with this man. They both itched to fall into one another. Bruce was moving quickly, enough that things were going to be uncomfortable if he didn't slow down, and Joker didn't care. One of his hands wandered and wrapped itself around Bruce's cock. 

Bruce's second finger pushed inside just as fast, manipulating the muscle around him. The Joker was only helping to spur him on faster, and Bruce loved the way he could make the man's lip curl and put a little wrinkle at the top of his nose at the sensation. It took longer to add the third finger, but Bruce managed with the Joker's hips still moving into him. Joker’s hand didn't cease its retaliation, squeezing just a little too hard whenever Bruce made things burn, but it didn't stop him and it wasn't meant to. 

Finally Bruce was pouring the gel over his own cock and the Joker's hand spread it for him, sending spikes of lust along with it as it drew up and down. Bruce swallowed, taking hold of the Joker's hand and prying it free before he lined himself up. 

Joker's lips were parted, a line of teeth just barely visible as his chest rose and fell. He was watching Bruce in anticipation, and his tongue darted out in a brief reappearance, nervously testing the corner of his mouth. Bruce's hips started to move forward, and Joker's eyes widened the moment he felt himself breached. Something about his entire face opened up, dropping the mask and the flat, alien stillness that appeared every now and then. Lines of tension said that the penetration wasn't entirely painless, but that didn't seem to matter. His arms had twined around Bruce again, latching on, and he had the same unsettling look of mad adoration Bruce remembered from the Penthouse.

It was all so familiar, so _welcoming_. Bruce wanted to kiss him, and so he did. He pressed his body into the Joker's and could feel his every muscle movement, every tremble, every strain. Bruce had thought he would never want to be so close to this man again, and he'd been wrong. So wrong. He wanted to melt inside him, sink until he could go no farther. And he did. 

When their hips fitted together, Bruce paused just to experience the feel of it. The Joker's chest rose and fell beneath him. Bruce looked into his eyes and he wasn't sure what the expression on his own face projected, but the Joker seemed to find some sort of fixation there, like he'd split Bruce open as completely as he himself looked. It was then that Bruce moved, pulling his hips back slowly and pushing forward again, reaching down for the Joker's cock between them. 

Joker had given up on any pretense at fighting or playing for dominance, at least for now. There wasn't any way to hide how this was affecting him and, moreover, there didn't seem to be a _point_ to trying to hide it. Bruce had to already know, from his observations and the few words that had been spoken, and he looked just as caught in this as Joker was himself. He found one hand wandering down to Bruce's hip, just beside where the knife wound had stopped its bleeding, wanting to feel the play of muscle beneath the skin while Bruce moved. Bruce leaned closer again and Joker rose up to meet him, licking his way back into his mouth now that he had the luxury of being able to do so. Bruce chased him back into his own mouth and Joker groaned.

Now that he could, Bruce sought out the feel of those scars. It was altogether a strange experience, yet one that felt so intimate that it negated the preconception entirely. It occurred to Bruce that he still had no idea how the man had gotten them, or anything about the man's life before Gotham, but it also occurred to him that right now he didn't care. He had the Joker, the man wasn't out there somewhere planning another strike. He was here beneath Bruce and that was where all of his focus remained. It was... unusually satisfying in a way that the Joker's obsession had never been before. Before, when the Joker had been hanging upside down from a rooftop proclaiming how they were destined to battle forever, it had been deeply uncomfortable. But now.... 

Bruce's hips snapped forward again, feeling the hot friction, part of him still disbelieving that he was inside _this man_ and another part of him, perhaps, finally suspecting why the Joker was so taken with the idea. 

The way Bruce was exploring Joker’s mouth, the slide of him inside his body, was more satisfying than it had been before. Joker had taken whatever he could get, desperate for a piece of the man, but in a way, Bruce had been showing affection to someone else. He'd been fucking Joker's mask of the moment, an idea of a persona in his head, regardless of how much of himself was actually in René. Now Bruce was touching his scars, kissing them from the inside, and the focus was on _him_ , as himself. It brought a rare flicker of emotion in Joker that wasn't the constant, smoldering rage or the cold, sharp emptiness and boredom that wound up into unbearable tension. Joker wrapped himself around Bruce and clung to him, clung to that ethereal, intangible wisp of _something_ that floated in the void.

Batman, _Bruce_ , was the only element that had ever caused it to appear. Joker couldn't give it up, any more than someone alone in the ocean could fathom letting go of the flotation device they were clinging to.

In spite of everything, Bruce had no desire to pull away. He knew this man's madness, whatever that entailed, would follow him, but Bruce couldn't care. Perhaps he would care tomorrow, but not now. Right now, he was awash in the culmination of all the fantasies he'd been having over René. The Joker was real, and he was beneath Bruce, letting himself be penetrated, letting Bruce fill him. He didn't have to hold him down or restrict his air for the man to know he wanted him. Bruce told him in the way he touched every part of him, in the way he stroked the Joker's cock and the way his free hand roamed everywhere it could. 

Whatever came next, Bruce would remember this. So would the Joker. This was a moment sealed in a vacuum. No strings attached. Their lies were already out in the open. 

Joker was starting to unravel. Small signs were there - in the way his body quivered underneath Bruce, the feverish light in his eyes. Joker always had an air of chaotic control, of steering events by flowing with them, and that sense was dissipating. There was no controlling this. It was a madness, an unstoppable force that was as irresistible as gravity.

Joker's body tightened around Bruce in degrees, building towards climax. His teeth caught on Bruce's lower lip as another flash of aggression washed through him. He wanted more. He wanted everything, for them both to tear into each other, swallowing down pieces until they were a fusion of one another, carrying fragments of the other inside themselves. Joker murmured something under his breath when Bruce pulled back from the sharpness.

The Joker's hand tightened at the back of Bruce's neck, pulling at the strands of hair. Their eyes met. The Joker was desperate. It was written all over him. Bruce dove in again, this time meeting the Joker's violence with his own. 

Their mouths clashed. Bruce's pace turned from frantic to punishing. Somewhere, distantly, the Joker's mumbled words drew a memory of his name on the man's tongue when they'd done this before. Except it wasn't his name. The end had always been dropped off in the Joker's gasps and groans, and Bruce realized now what he'd been saying all along. 

_Bats._

It tore a growl from Bruce's throat and he slammed home hard. 

The mixed pain and pleasure of it, the way Bruce's hand tightened and stroked over his cock, the growl that poured from Bruce's mouth into his own - all of it combined into an overwhelming wave of sensation. Joker arched and then he was coming _hard_ , silence ringing in his ears and darkness eating at the edges of his vision. All he could focus on was Bruce's face floating just above him, and the sliding and spikes of bliss intense enough to be painful as Bruce continued to pound into him, every now and then hitting the perfect angle. Joker's hands curled into claws. He could feel his own throat vibrate with sound, but he couldn't hear it.

It was a howl that reverberated through the apartment and sank deep into Bruce's bones. He'd never heard René make that noise. He'd never, technically, heard it from the Joker either. But the man had come close before. Echoes of the way he'd laughed, cried out, nearly sang with excitement once upon a time in Gordon's interrogation room came back to Bruce. 

There was no question this man was anything other than one and the same. 

Bruce was gritting his teeth, hands now in the Joker's hair, forcing his head down so he could see the man's face, trying to hold on just a little longer because he wanted to look... The Joker's head lolled, his mouth was parted, dazed, but his eyes focused on Bruce and nothing else, and Bruce lost it. 

It was violent at first, but Bruce stilled when he came, locked in the Joker's gaze.

Joker drank the sight in, watching Bruce fall apart above him. _In him._ He could feel the twitch of the man's cock inside him as he spent himself, and that was erotic enough to be arousing all over again had his own body not exhausted itself. 

Bruce was looking at him differently now, beyond the flush of pleasure. Something had clicked within him, and Joker was willing to bet that he saw things, now - the same things that Joker had seen so long ago, when what had started as a simple job and diversion had changed forms, sinking hooks into him and prompting an obsession to a level Joker had never felt before. 

Bruce collapsed, exhausted. Bliss washed over him, and surprisingly little guilt with the fading sensations and the clearing of his head. The Joker was warm beneath him, and welcoming. Bruce was very reluctant to pull out. He didn't move off the Joker though. Face buried in the man's neck, the hand that wasn't trapped between their bodies came up to stroke the Joker's hair back from his face. Bruce wasn't sure why he did it, except that he knew he could. 

Joker drank up the touch, the closeness, sheltering the embers of what had been generated as if he were afraid they'd be snuffed out at any moment. And perhaps they might be. Feelings and emotions didn't last long in the void inside of him, unless they were anger. Bruce's breath was warm against his neck, the scent of him was familiar, and now fingers were stroking through his hair. Fond, soothing.

It was almost more than he could take. The ember in his chest grew and started to singe, causing his body to shiver all over again and his pulse to spike. Joker shut his eyes when his vision grew watery and threatened to spill over. Physical pain never did this. Whatever this was, it burned, like plunging frostbitten hands steaming into hot water.

Bruce watched the rapid play of emotions over the Joker's face. He was too dazed to parse it except that the man seemed to be overcome with very intense feeling. 

Bruce pulled his other arm free and wrapped it around the other man. Though he'd come back to his senses, a very large part of him didn't want to let go, didn't want to let this moment end. Bruce swallowed and held on. The Joker could very well lash out at him. Bruce had no idea what was going through his mind, but he took his chances. 

Joker felt Bruce moving closer, rather than away, and the sensation that caused was nearly enough to make him howl again. He turned his head and bit down on his own forearm instead, muffling the sound. Dampness had spread down his cheeks; he'd lost that particular battle, but it didn't matter. This wasn't a fight against embarrassment, but a struggle not to drown. He'd wanted something to stave off the void for a little while and found something stronger than he'd counted on. His teeth sunk into his own flesh and he couldn't get enough air, and he _still_ wasn't willing to let go. His other arm curled around Bruce all the tighter.

As Bruce watched, he began to understand where this well of emotion was coming from. The Joker had told him outright how much Bruce, Batman, had affected him. The Joker had _shown_ him. Much like Bruce, the man had never really thought this could happen. Desire, obsession, and expectation were very different things. 

Bruce had no idea whether he should be comforting a man like this, but if that was the case then he shouldn't have just done what they'd done together either. And more importantly, he still didn't want to let go. 

Carefully, Bruce wrapped his other arm around the Joker. He buried his nose in the man's neck, sensing that words would be useless. Bruce didn't have words anyway. 

Pain eventually took the edge off, the nerve endings in Joker's arm protesting the abuse they were being subjected to. He still felt raw all over in a way he couldn't remember ever feeling before, but even _this_ was good. Almost unendurable, or it felt like it, but it was _something_. Joker would take being burned to ashes like this over the terrible, empty flatness every time, if given a choice.

Joker finally released his arm and wrapped it around Bruce again, trying to catch his breath and will his heartbeat to slow down.

Bruce let it happen. 

This night had become...stranger than he could completely sort out yet. There would be repercussions so great he very likely would not be able to return anywhere Bruce Wayne was known. Even when he'd run away, when he'd left Gotham after the trial of Joe Chill, he'd been able to come back and find his home waiting for him. His funds would be transferred to Alfred, if the man could avoid scrutiny himself. They'd put measures in place should these circumstances ever come to pass. Alfred, Lucius, they could theoretically prove no knowledge of Bruce's actions, and Bruce had left himself enough money stored outside of his holdings that he would be able to run. Now they would have to test that theory. Still, his heart sank to think of it. 

And then there was this man in his arms, curled into him now like Bruce was the only thing he'd ever tried to hold onto. 

As he looked on the Joker and thought about his life now, something began to dawn on Bruce. He could never let this man go. He had forcibly promised himself that. In order to protect the people of this city, he'd locked the Joker up, knowing it could potentially mean his death - by suicide, probably. But Bruce wouldn't kill him either, and he'd run into a dead end every which way he'd turned trying to figure out what to do with him. The Joker had pleaded with him the last time and Bruce had felt something for him then. Bruce couldn't lock him up, he couldn't hold the Joker hostage in a little cell in a cave somewhere. Bruce couldn't kill him. 

...but he could keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi.
> 
> ScintillatingVoid: [scintillatingvoid.tumblr.com](http://scintillatingvoid.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Wardriven: [wardriving-the-tundra.tumblr.com](http://wardriving-the-tundra.tumblr.com/)


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